Found 'stone' from Monday, Jan 30, 2012

I found a picture of my Dad holding our oldest when she was a baby. I look carefully. I see my Dad for the first time. I see how his hands are formed -- they are lovely hands. I see how his body says he is unsure, how he's never had enough respect in this world in that life to build a strong sense of self-confidence. I can easily see him come to some hobo's fire and slip into place, his eyes seeking company, his thirst wanting wine, and give that nod I remember, "how-do" he'd say. He liked people's stories. He'd give his last dollar, his shirt, or his shoes if someone needed them. He was never at home when he was at home. He was not ours. I see all this.

In the moment the picture captured, he held my daughter and I took the picture. She isn't looking at him and he isn't looking at her -- she is looking at her grandparents home and he is looking past me to see my Mother approve -- or not -- of the way he's holding a baby -- is he doing this right? Nine children the man fathered but he has not had experience holding one. My brother asked me just short of a year ago -- "Did Dad ever talk to you? Cause I don't think he ever told me anything." 


Yes, he did. He told me once, "Don't think too much -- that's what makes you do things."

                                                            My Dad with his Dad