Jack’s Shadowbox

Jack of all trades. Demigod of the garden. Camper extraordinaire. Master of music. Guru of games—rummy, poker, pool, and Wheel of Fortune. He roasted green chilis fresh off the vine, cooked up fresh-caught, deep-fried catfish, served hot chocolate gravy over biscuits for breakfast, and ran a locomotive to boot. A 7 x 10-inch shadowbox I made for his last Father’s Day captures his essence, his presence, in thirteen squares of assorted sizes. 

I stood in his shadow, following step-by-step as he tended the garden, whistling, “Let It Be.” Those words are tattooed on my arm beneath a mountain chickadee, his name for me. He trimmed tall grass, blowing leaves into a frenzy and mowing them away. In Springtime, he dug, raked, and planted until flowers of every variety sprang up from the soil: Dahlias, Sweet Williams, Snap Dragons, and Roses. Miniature garden tools—a tiny black, metal push mower with two red wheels, silver shears with red handles, matching rake, shovel, and crosscut saw sit in the shadowbox. Smooth-jaw pliers like he used to pull loose teeth, a pipe wrench, hammer, and nails. Jack could fix anything. 

Camping gear for weekends at Black River sits on shelves in the shadowbox. One red lantern, a blue pot, white speckles on its surface, a frying pan and matching biscuit tin. Fishing pole, fish on a frame, a Field & Stream magazine for lazy days on the water. The cover photo is a man in a bass boat, just like Jack’s. If the fish ain’t bitin’, other tools on a shelf will capture wild game. A duck sits nearby, sad eyes, considering her fate. 

When the sun fades behind tall pines, stealing warmth and the last bit of light, it’s time for a campfire, peanuts and Pepsi. He brings out the guitar and croons the chorus of a Willie Nelson tune until the final embers of flame flicker into darkness.