THE BLIND MECHANIC
I knew a blind mechanic once,
Who could not see with his eyes;
But he could feel the bolts with his fingers,
That’s how he would know their size.
Whether it was 9/16 or ½ an inch,
He knew just what was there;
Then he would ask me to pass him a wrench,
And he would do the needed repairs.
His name was Don, his wife was Pat,
They had a little girl named Donna;
They did their best with what they had,
Near the old Port Arthur sauna.
He had a Class ’A’ mechanic’s license,
And he got it fair and square;
He answered the questions orally,
As his wife was sitting there.
His wife would write down his answers,
And he passed the test with ease;
A Class ‘A’ mechanic’s license
Is what he would receive.
He used to work on construction,
From dawn ‘till late at night;
He suffered ‘flashes’ when he was welding,
And it eventually cost him his sight.
But you’d think he could see 20/20,
When he was working on a car;
He could literally see with his fingers,
While puffing on a big cigar.
When Don would finish work for the day,
He would puff on a big cigar;
And maybe have a beer or two,
At a friendly neighborhood bar.
We were living in Port Arthur,
Those many years ago;
Joanne and I and our two little kids,
Where Gitche Gumee’s water flows.
The blind mechanic has passed away,
To that big garage in the sky;
He’s repairing heavenly vehicles,
With a brand new pair of eyes!
Bob Bartlett,
North Bay
