Ode To RG Witten On Father’s Day

When I think of you now, I mostly think of hand tools: a wood plane I could never get the hang of; a leather-handled hammer with a 1942 year stamped on it; a handmade wooden tool chest with tightly fitted drawers; hand saws, peppered now with scattered rust; three foot long drill bits. But I also think of your Oklahoma drawl, still with you after nearly 60 years in Oregon; you speeding in your red Pontiac station wagon, which always scared the shit out of me; your pin point putting on the golf course; your weekly Sunday morning phone call, precisely at 8:00; your message if I missed the call: “Oh, it’s just your Daddy.” You have been gone awhile, but it is still clear, you are very much here.