John Long
I’m named after my grandfather
John Edward Long.
We shared a name
and jokes
about our name—
for a long time
our only connection.
Jokes about Long John
in the nineteenth century
are the same
in the twenty-first.
Grampa went to work
age thirteen
in a woolen mill;
by fifteen,
an accident with a machine
mangled his right hand.
His first finger, gone.
second finger
down to first knuckle.
Third finger
to second knuckle.
He recovered
went back to work.
People said he changed
from a young man
eager to work,
to a tough old bird
in one swoop.
Grampa worked hard
became a foreman
but never loyal
to any company.
Another job offer
for more money,
and he moved on
with no explanation.
As a boy I didn’t
see my small grampa
as a tough boss
feared by men at the mill.
He sat in his chair
listened to the radio,
needed a cane
had glasses so thick
his eyes were huge.
I glimpsed his past life
only when he barked at me,
“stop making noise
go play outside.”
At fourteen
I worked as a caddy
at a wealthy country club
carrying golf bags
learning about class
from men who said:
industrial accidents
are unfortunate.
We try to prevent them
but sometimes
workers are just careless.
I had the chance to go after
more schooling than grampa.
I learned
to be a smart bird
not a tough one.
I learned
to imitate Grampa’s
attitude toward work:
give your best work
demand good pay
no loyalty, no trust
for any employer
take the next job offer.
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