HE CARRIED it to the job he worked.
He carried it each day.
He packed my Mom's good cooking.
He only wanted to save.

He lived through the depression.
He ate poke salad way too much.
He made whatever he needed.
He was treated mean and rough.

But he confessed to me one day.
How hard his life had been.
How he decided it would change.
So there'd be no fences to mend.

How work and sweat and saving,
Was the way that he would go.
And make a good life, better.
For the children he would grow.

So that black box is a sweet symbol,
With the work-shirts he always wore.
And I am Honest John's daughter.
That us grateful to the core.