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Smoke and Whiskey

Gil Hoy

I found my Grandfather’s
business card
in a black old box
of family photos
in our attic. The once durable
16pt card stock
was badly creased,
its letters
worn and faded.

The man was a hero
in my mother’s eyes.
I never felt like much by comparison. The truth
is often less than the legend,
even if he did only finish the second grade,
could add up numbers faster than a computer,
built skyscrapers and homeless shelters
and had hundreds of employees
who loved him. Loved him like a father or a lover
or a son. Sixty years ago.

My mother’s father died from smoke

and too much whiskey
when I was
just a little boy.
So I never got to know him very well.

I remember sitting on his lap
in my grandparents’ Florida sun room.
It was dark outside. The sun
was just beginning to come up.

The air was filled with smoke.
He held a glass of bourbon and ice
in his hand. The smell of burning tobacco
was strong. And I liked it.

He got up to go outside.
Put me down on the couch.
My eyes were heavy.
No one else
was awake.


He opened the silver, side screen door.

Stepped out into the back yard.
Blue-green grass,
soft carpet under bare feet.

He walked out
onto a wooden dock.
With rusty nails and old varnish.

And a weathered bait bucket,

attached by a coiled
brown rope,

that was fraying
like a horse’s
unkempt tail.

Rumbling fiddler crabs roamed
off of the dock, like hordes of buffalo

trampling on
sand
and blue-gray stones.

He reached out to give $20 to a poor,
black man. Who rowed by every morning
in a small wooden boat.

Then my Grandfather took a long,
slow drag from his smoke.
And looked off towards the expanse of the sea.

He went back inside.
Took his shower and got dressed.
He would be meeting with new clients soon.
Hoping to fill their stores
with fine furniture to sell.

He died from smoke
and too much whiskey
when I was
just a little boy.
So I never got to know him very well.

I dreamt last night I was sitting again
in his smoke-filled Florida sun room.
Loving the smell of burning tobacco.
I’m glad I have his blood in me.

I found my grandfather’s business card
in a black old box
of family photos in our attic.

The once durable 16pt card stock

was badly creased,
its letters
worn and faded.

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