Another special find

I have discovered another treasure inside one the plastic storage containers. It is good to find forgotten things, stoke those times that were good, or not so good. These items remind us who we are, why we are. I distinctly remember the Garcia boxes, but not this one, the Antonio y Cleopatra. I could even give the poem a new title. Perhaps my grandfather's old boxes wore out, collapsed from lack of money. I am sure he gave this to me, although I do not remember the moment or the conversation. But, today, my memory is freshened, filled with other special times we had.

Garcia y Vega

There was an incredible simplicity to his business

accounting. A pair of Garcia y Vega cigar boxes,

one marked In, the other Out. The colorful lids belied

the raw, red hands, purple thumbs, toothpick-sized

splinters and fierce labor of pole barn construction.

Bad weather provided no excuse to stay home. Holes

were augured in frozen ground or dug by hand when

the tractor broke down. We slogged through Super Glue

mud that gripped boots, ran for the truck when lightning

sizzled the air and skated on clay slick as glycerin on glass.

Friday afternoon grungy guys gathered round the kitchen

table as pay was doled out, slowly revealing a white bottom

in the box. Someone rolled his bills and clenched them

between his teeth, “Ain’t nothing like a fat green stogie!”

We roared, ignoring the dissipating aroma of success.

It was the dwindling In and the profusely bleeding Out

that allowed me to obtain the grants to go to college.

Years later, when antique cigar boxes became the rage

of collectors, the boxes seemed to hold more value than

my grandfather’s pole barn business ever did achieve.