My father, Paddy Winch (1905--1971), worked as the custodian of St. Thomas Aquinas elementary school in the Bronx, which this poem commemorates. He was a very generous and loving man, much beloved by his children and all who knew him. The photo shows him playing the banjo in 1958 in the house in Cahercrea, County Galway, Ireland, where my mother, Bridie Flynn, was born and raised. My parents were in Ireland that summer, their first trip back in almost 30 years. (Dublin cousins Noel Rogan and Martin Dawson are also seen in the photo.)
Custodian
for charlie fanning
_________________________________
I ran the shovel along the street,
a razor path through the sidewalk face,
snow lather parting for me, for my father,
our feet crunching in the city night.
We grabbed the garbage cans from school
and church and dragged them up the iron
stairs. I lugged burlap bags stuffed
with bingo cards, light as cream puffs.
We swept the auditorium with green sawdust
from huge drums. We hammered and drilled
in his workshop, where tools hung on pegboard,
their images silhouetted behind them
For instant identification and placement.
Once he sawed his index finger in half
on the power saw in a moment of inattention
in a life otherwise built of skill and care.
Once a year the Monsignor made him climb inside
the giant boiler and clean it out
with enormous pipe cleaners till he was black
with soot that took days to wash off.
Sonny boy, he called me, and laddie buck.
He always said just do your best.
We loved to watch him fall asleep
on the couch, Daily News over his face
Snores filling the apartment
with the music of rest well deserved.
His finger took years to heal enough
for him to play again but a black scar
Ran down its center. He’d give me a rub
with his unshaven face, rough as sandpaper.
He’d pretend he didn’t know me, scrubbed from
the tub, the lovely lie delighting me every time.
from Boy Drinkers (Hanging Loose Press, 2007)
Thank you for telling this story filled with history and for sharing the small things that reveal two big personalities (your father’s and yours!). I especially love learning about the nickname “laddie buck” and how you put a positive spin on snoring. As both a teller and listener of “lovely lies,” I delight in continuing the tradition. Your own skill and care are beautiful tributes to your father and the influence he had on you.
Posted by: Patrick Reich | June 16, 2019 at 04:30 PM
Thanks, Patrick. I know he was delighted that you were named for him, though I imagine your memories of him are faint.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 16, 2019 at 05:05 PM
patrick's comment says what I would like to...I'll just add that you were lucky to have the father you did Terence, and he was lucky to have you as one of his children, your poems and stories bring him to life and keep him there...
Posted by: lally | June 16, 2019 at 05:45 PM
To Teri, from Marty
I remember your dad and mom being in our house in Ireland in 1958. So seeing your picture and reading your poem brought back some happy memories.
Thank you again, Marty Dawson.
Posted by: Marty Dawson | June 16, 2019 at 06:52 PM
The "how they spent their days" line running through this wonderful Terence Winch poem is something I thought a lot about today re my own dad: milk truck driver, cab driver, salesman, finally a postman. The long days in delivering--whether milk or human bodies or The Pitch or essential mail-- the long days as in the poem clearing sidewalks or boilers, all to Keep It Together for family... we the beneficiaries able to write these things today.
Posted by: Gerald Fleming | June 16, 2019 at 08:59 PM
Good to hear from you, Marti. I thought that was your brother Neil in the photo, but I sent it to Martin Flynn, who said he thought it was you.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 16, 2019 at 10:01 PM
Thanks, Michael.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 16, 2019 at 10:01 PM
Absolutely right, Jerry.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 16, 2019 at 10:03 PM
Absolutely right, Jerry.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 16, 2019 at 10:04 PM
light as cream puffs
the lovely lie
wonderful
Posted by: Susan Francis Campbell | June 16, 2019 at 11:37 PM
Thanks Terry.
Posted by: Michael O’Keefe | June 17, 2019 at 02:51 AM
Thank you, Ms. Campbell.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 17, 2019 at 09:49 AM
Thank you, Ms. Campbell
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 17, 2019 at 09:51 AM
Now I see where you and your bro got your sense of humor! Vivid and heartwarming memories in the poem, Terry. All the best, Betsy O
Posted by: Betsy O'Malley | June 17, 2019 at 12:07 PM
Thanks, Betsy. (The Vega he's playing is the one I have had since he died.)
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 17, 2019 at 12:29 PM
Lucky song to have these words, not to mention the subject, Paddy, luckiest.
Watching him fall asleep, the Daily News--supreme!
Posted by: Don Berger | June 17, 2019 at 02:13 PM
Danke, mein Freund.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 17, 2019 at 05:41 PM
O Terence,
What a lovely, sweet poem of a truly dear dad! The best when he pretended not to recognize you after the bath. That fabulous Irish sense of humor that you've inherited.
And I love your mother's maiden name!
Posted by: M. Owen | June 17, 2019 at 06:11 PM
Thanks, Maureen. Great to hear from you.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 18, 2019 at 09:43 AM
Terence Winch's writing unfailingly rewards anticipation of the next: his next BAP blog entry, his next volume of verse, his next book of prose, all ensorceling us with their unforced acumen and evocative language. "Custodian" was published twelve years ago in THE BOY DRINKERS. The passage of time has only deepened that poem's power. We need more writers of Terence's skill and seeing--in the moment right now and, yes, in the next.
Posted by: Earle R. Hitchner III | June 19, 2019 at 12:18 PM
Dad,
This is a great poem about your dad. I wish I could have known him, and now I think I owe you a poem!
Love,
Michael
Posted by: Mike Winch | June 19, 2019 at 02:29 PM
Thank you, Michael. You have always reminded me of him. And he would have totally loved you (and not just because you're such a great musician).
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 19, 2019 at 04:25 PM
Thank you, my friend. Is there any chance of your becoming the New Yorker's next poetry editor?
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 19, 2019 at 04:34 PM