ceful。

My　father　doesn't　have　a　studio　or　anything；　and　since　the　garage　is　stuffed　with　things　that

everyone　thinks　they　need　but　no　one　ever　uses；　he

paints　outside。

Outside　is　where　the　best　landscapes　are；　only　they're　nowhere　near　our　house。　So　what　he

does　is　keep　a　camera　in　his　truck。　His　job　as　a

mason　takes　him　to　lots　of　different　locations；　and　he's　always　on　the　lookout　for　a　great

sunrise　or　sunset；　or　even　just　a　nice　field　with　sheep　or

cows。　Then　he　picks　out　one　of　the　snapshots；　clips　it　to　his　easel；　and　paints。

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　w