第5部分 (第5/8页)

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。

………　Page　16………

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