This poem is dedicated to my late grandfather, who taught me more than formal education ever has.

Growing up in Southern Virginia leads one to absorb a variety of cultures, and within those cultures lies a wealth of knowledge. My grandfather, or “Papaw,” was born in the 1940s to a low-income family of farmers. He attended public school up until the eighth grade, when he dropped out in order to support his family and bring in another income. Somehow, despite those years of schooling, he never learned how to read. The educational system, meant to support and nourish his growth academically, failed him in every way. My grandfather lived his entire life without fully learning to read; in his later years, pride prevented him from being taught. However, he always searched for meaning and reasoning everywhere he looked. His inquisitive nature was never hindered by his inability to read, leading to a life full of alternatives and supplemental tools that aided his understanding of the written word and the world around us. We as a society put a lot of emphasis on education, and while it is an integral part of many aspects of life, we must remember the value of human connection, understanding, and empathy. My grandfather might not have been able to read books, but he always had his audio bible in his pocket. He showed me how to crack walnuts and check for bad ones. He taught me how to take machines apart and put them back together again. He taught me how to tend a garden and fertilize all types of vegetables. He taught me how to make an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink cake. Most importantly, he taught me the beauty of loving and caring for those around me.

To a Man Like Me

Holy verses ringin out

tinny and warbled through

My audio bible, portable, so I hear

the Lord’s word while

rolling down I-81

Word search books,

edges creased and worn-soft,

thick lead pencil scrawled on

every page, circling the words that

trip over my tongue

A life of hard work, dirty and

blue, rough, and seventy years

long enough to learn

to mold steel beneath these

hands that can’t speak because

My fingertips can’t graze my

grandkid’s homework or

the headlines on the news or

the town newspaper or

my daughter’s obituary and there’s

Words surrounding me

Swirlin’ round my head,

books stacked like logs

A fortress of paper and ink

Just outta reach with

as much use as fire kindlin’

To a man like me