Irwin

Some come out as lyrics, some as fiction, some are poems…  This one popped out yesterday. Remembrance of an old man, of German heritage, I worked with at Miner’s Lumber Company. Irwin Frentzel. A good, true soul and mentor. Have never forgotten him. Click here for more about Irwin.

Irwin
“I butchered hogs in Chicago” he said
as we flipped two by eights
that had squirreled the stack.
He seventy-three,
I, on summer break.
A glint of sunlight
sparked off his rheumy eyes
when he said it.
“Beeves, too.”
 
Rough-sewn patches 
on his worn bib overalls
could not hide the curved shape 
of his yet powerful legs, 
bent like a bow strung tight
or a grass hook’s blade.
 
“We’ll throw this one aside, 
it’s got wind shakes” he remarked.
 
Deliveries all made, still on the clock,
we re-stacked boards
on a windless summer afternoon.
In a lumberman’s hornpipe,
he on one end, me the other,
we sorted the piles, 
culling the winding, crooked planks
and those bowed as his old legs.
 
I was eighteen and wirey,
and full of myself,
determined to match his steady pace.
 
He didn’t mind the heavy lifting.
Came in three days a week
out of boredom,
too restless to sit at home,
listening to Cardinal baseball 
on the radio.
 
“I drink one shot of whiskey
before bed”, he answered
how he stayed so fit,
“and a glass of tap-water
when I first wake up.”
 
“I like to work”, he grinned.
I was surprised to learn I did too,
when the work was pure.
 
Sixteen foot, yellow pine
two by twelves came last.
Heavy, and dense,
it took strong fingers
and a three-count rhythm 
to get purchase enough
to roll them over. 
 
I didn’t know, then, he was 
teaching me the dance.
 
“Now, that’s a nice board” I said
after we uncovered one,
straight-grained, perfectly true,
without a knot.
“Good piece of goods”, he agreed.
 
When he smiled, the raised
cheeks made his eyes narrow slits.
“I think that’s enough for now,” he chuckled,
wiping sweat from his bald head
with a bright red bandana, 
“Let’s go inside for a Payday candy bar
and a Coke.”
 
“You can finish up what’s left, tomorrow. 
That’s my day off.”
 
 
—— Chris D. Moore
       June 2022