Father Called Him Paw
Father called him Paw,
the name fitting
his height
his weight
his rough
carpenter’s hands
wielding the jack knife
sitting low
on a wooden crate
in the orchard shade
piecing out an apple
slice by slice;
eating some;
offering some;
mostly in silence.
His letters to
Father were pages
of big running
cursive O’s
strung together
filling line after
line of white
paper in blue
indecipherable ink
like some Oklahoma
Sanskrit — written
and replied to
without emotion.
Pa wore
white overalls,
and collared shirt;
affected only
by a large
gold pocket watch
which regular he
took out to wind;
rimless glasses
which often were
unlatched from
around large ears
to clean and then
wrapped back
head bending
with the burden
of being strapped
into them again;
and thick hair
—a bright full moon
of it over
eyes that
took things in
and maybe --
did not know
how to let
them out again.
Coming by
Greyhound from
time-to-time
unshaken by the
ride or the time
in between --
just here now
not there;
a connecting stop
on a continuing trip;
ticket in hand.
It was
—in all likelihood --
free or inexpensive;
and Pa sat for it
in the open
Greenfield summer light
smack in the
living room middle;
stiff backed
not smiling
side-view charcoal
portrait which
hung in Father’s
office for years --
a yellowing connection;
an artifact, a history
between them
that could not
be seen;
perceived;
or felt.
In Greenfield
he’d wander off
down the sidewalk,
uninviting; and
return for meals
at the appointed
time — never lost
or late. No
word or story or
site or sound --
remembered or
retold — just
off and gone;
then back again --
a silent Odysseus.
As the road
moved to Buffalo --
he came still --
there was no
verbal anticipation --
but anticipation
came out of him
to see the Falls --
and so we did;
always among
the Canadian flowers
and Mother’s picnics.
There is nothing
with which
to make a metaphor
of the encompassing
crash and raining
mist. At 93
Pa walked alone,
uninviting, to
look upon it;
in it; surrounded
by the sound
— several times --
and returning across
the road; to sit
in silence.
East Lansing
October 24, 2004
Grand Island Series
©2004 Father Called Him Paw — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
the name fitting
his height
his weight
his rough
carpenter’s hands
wielding the jack knife
sitting low
on a wooden crate
in the orchard shade
piecing out an apple
slice by slice;
eating some;
offering some;
mostly in silence.
His letters to
Father were pages
of big running
cursive O’s
strung together
filling line after
line of white
paper in blue
indecipherable ink
like some Oklahoma
Sanskrit — written
and replied to
without emotion.
Pa wore
white overalls,
and collared shirt;
affected only
by a large
gold pocket watch
which regular he
took out to wind;
rimless glasses
which often were
unlatched from
around large ears
to clean and then
wrapped back
head bending
with the burden
of being strapped
into them again;
and thick hair
—a bright full moon
of it over
eyes that
took things in
and maybe --
did not know
how to let
them out again.
Coming by
Greyhound from
time-to-time
unshaken by the
ride or the time
in between --
just here now
not there;
a connecting stop
on a continuing trip;
ticket in hand.
It was
—in all likelihood --
free or inexpensive;
and Pa sat for it
in the open
Greenfield summer light
smack in the
living room middle;
stiff backed
not smiling
side-view charcoal
portrait which
hung in Father’s
office for years --
a yellowing connection;
an artifact, a history
between them
that could not
be seen;
perceived;
or felt.
In Greenfield
he’d wander off
down the sidewalk,
uninviting; and
return for meals
at the appointed
time — never lost
or late. No
word or story or
site or sound --
remembered or
retold — just
off and gone;
then back again --
a silent Odysseus.
As the road
moved to Buffalo --
he came still --
there was no
verbal anticipation --
but anticipation
came out of him
to see the Falls --
and so we did;
always among
the Canadian flowers
and Mother’s picnics.
There is nothing
with which
to make a metaphor
of the encompassing
crash and raining
mist. At 93
Pa walked alone,
uninviting, to
look upon it;
in it; surrounded
by the sound
— several times --
and returning across
the road; to sit
in silence.
East Lansing
October 24, 2004
Grand Island Series
©2004 Father Called Him Paw — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.