Out of the Mist
this rickety old bench under the trees that shaded the
old house. He taught me how to read, using the labels from discarded dog
food cans, and he would teach me these wonderful songs, none of which I
remember. Oddly, I remember the smell of chewing tobacco from his stained
brown teeth as he spoke, mixed with the odor of the surrounding bushes and
trees.
If I had to describe Paul for you, I would ask you to
envision Robert Frost in overalls and you would have an accurate picture.
If you could imagine a frog reciting poetry, you would have his voice as
well, deep and gravelly. He was my mentor for the short time that I made
his acquaintance, and knowing someone so old at so young an age helped me
understand how life cycles and recycles itself.
I remember clearly the day George Read came to our
house with the news that his father-in-law had "passed away." I don't remember
any tears in my eyes for the old guy, as if I knew — or Paul himself
had somehow prepared me to know — that he had lived an unnaturally