Yellow Paint

by Tom Mueller

I first met Jim in a telephone call
His voice was distant, I was small
He called his Sis by phone every year
From a land down under and far from here

He lived in the Outback, hours from Perth
A mining man he, prospecting the earth
He searched for gold, as some men do
Maybe even found some – we never knew

A private man he, few details he gave
He lived in a camp, a mechanic by trade
He maintained diesels for a mining concern
And prospected often with the money he earned

Jim was odd by family norms
Friendly enough, but avoided the storms
Of family ties and sibling contention
Preferring the Outback to the Midwest convention

He served in the Army and lived overseas
His Show-Me roots seeming to flee
After his service adventure still called
That’s when he left for a new land called Aus

Twenty years Jim spent away in the wild 
Rarely returning to his home when a child
Until the time when his mother grew ill
To home he returned, a guilt gap to fill

Jim was the friendliest man one could know
All smiles and stories – such tales he’d sow!
But life in the Midwest was not what he hoped
He drank quite a lot and privately moped

He spoke of returning back to his camp
To the trailer he left and the life of a scamp
He said he had money, but here he remained
Long after his mother was placed in her grave

Many years passed, I was well over fifty
My Mom, his Sis, rang me – come quickly!
Jim had fallen, drunk in his home
Banged his head, they said he was done

I went north to help however I might
I stopped at his home and paused at the sight
Blood on the floor, and filth everywhere
A bachelor’s pad without cleaning or care

His prognosis was grim, sepsis the cause
Poisoned blood his life would now pause
The end was near, addiction’s sad course
Funeral arrangements were made with remorse

My job then was to clear it all out
Get rid of his stuff and clean up the house
A picture of life I saw in his things
But little to speak of the Outback King

His clothes strewn about, some papers on file
A World War II rifle, stored for a while
A microwave oven never cleaned in its life
A stove and a tub - equally rife

But mostly I noted the tools all around
Small tools and large tools on shelves and the ground
Tools of a man who worked with his hands
Tools of a man who still had his plans

As I went through his things, his life I envisioned
The tools were his stock and his life they provisioned
He worked closely with others – this I could feint
He marked all his tools with bright yellow paint

Wrenches and rachets and tape measures too
Their ownership marked by this bright yellow goo
Tools can grow legs and rapidly go
But not when they’re marked so distinctly and bold

I gave away most to his neighbors and friends
People he trusts and on whom he'd depend
To pick him up from the ground when he'd fall
Nursing the stupor into which he would crawl

We donated some to a mechanic trainee
A student in school, of limited means
A few tools I kept, reminders of Jim
When I pull out a tool, I now think of him

Jim didn’t pass! he whistled on by
Addiction was finished, though still he did try
He lived as a ward but still told his stories
An honor guard flagged his pass into glory

Family rumors say Jim buried gold
It seems like a story Jim would have told
No doubt he would use tools - old and quaint 
Each proudly marked with bright yellow paint

December 2023