I often
think about Robert Frost’s poem, his “Death of the Hired Hand”; as I too, go
about my chores. As one who takes some
pride in OCD, AKA: inappropriate meticulousness; I appreciate attention to
detail that others ignore.
In
the poem, Silas, the handy man who is dying out of sight, was being pre-eulogized
by the wife and his sometime employer, her husband.
Silas was now, maybe worthless, sometimes in the past, valuable. But after refection, he is acknowledged as
being at least, good at some few things.
But:
“What good is he? Who
else will harbor him? At his age for the
little he can do?”
Well, I recall that he could build a hay pile,
he’s
trying to lift, straining to lift himself, straining, not to stand, not on
anything, really.
To stand or
nothing….
as
I do as I dig potatoes from a bed I will never step into, much less stand on. But, also, as I collect firewood, first into
the tractor bucket as I cut it in the forest… how might this log fit? Can I maximize the load and minimize the
trips? Then, as I build the pile from
the tractor to the storage outside the door to the house and even as I load the
dolly I use to bring in those few pieces that will warm us for a day or two, or
more, if we’re lucky because the days are warm.
These efforts stand on nothing. They
are nothings which are things only because.
They are nothings.
I
am a hired hand, valued or not, by my memories, my discipline, to myself,
perhaps, only to myself.
Surely you wouldn’t grudge the poor old man Some
humble way to save his self-respect.
You never see him
standing on the hay He thinks if he could teach him that, he’d be Some good perhaps to
someone in the world.
And
if you need to read the real thing:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44261/the-death-of-the-hired-man
