The paintings e out fine； but I've always felt a little sorry for him； having to paint beautiful
scenes in our backyard； which is not exactly
picturesque。 It never was much of a yard； but after I started raising chickens； things didn't
exactly improve。
Dad doesn't seem to see the backyard or the chickens when he's painting； though。 It's not
just the snapshot or the canvas he sees either。 It's
something much bigger。 He gets this look in his eye like he's transcended the yard； the
neighborhood； the world。 And as his big； callused hands
sweep a tiny brush against the canvas； it's almost like his body has been possessed by some
graceful spiritual being。
When I was little； my dad would let me sit beside him on the porch while he painted； as long
as I'd be quiet。 I don't do quiet easily； but I discovered
that after five or ten minutes without a peep； he'd start talking。
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I've learned a lot about my dad that way。 He told me all sorts of stories about what he'd done
when he was my age； and other things； too—like
how he got his first job delivering hay； and how he wished he'd finished college。
When I got a little older； he still talked about himself and his childhood； but he also started
asking questions about me。 What were we learning at
school？ What book was I currently reading？ What did I think about this or that。
Then one time h