My Grandfather started an auto repair shop in the 1930s.
He had left a good job at the county to do so, when times were lean.
I hung around the garage as a teenager and remember stories about
how scarce things were during the depression and WWII.
Those memories inspired this poem.


The Great Depression put many in a tough spot,
  and those who lived through it learned to “waste not, want not.”

My grandfather would save hardware from everything he took apart,
  things he could use in his garage to make a car start.

Every bolt, nut, and washer, Gramps would stash away
  in big metal cans to be sorted through someday.


And during certain times of the year when the shop was slow,
  into the garage attic us kids would go.

We spent hours upstairs, in the cold, barely lit,
  picking through buckets of fasteners, bit by bit.

The goal was to organize by thread pitch, hardness and size,
  to make them available in the future, should the need arise.

The reclaimed booty was worth a fraction of what we earned,
  but through that dreadful work the lesson of thrift was learned.

Now, while we’re stuck at home sitting on our quarantined butts,
  it’s a good time to sort through those old buckets of bolts and nuts.