Artist in Residence
Papaw said I was an artist.
He was sure of it.
Back when he worked back-breaking days
installing pumps and tanks,
Standard Oil Company gave him a calendar
for Christmas.
Above each month’s days,
a nature photograph.
One, in particular,
was a favorite…
a buck leaping over a branch,
evergreens in the foreground,
fall coloring the hills.
“You could paint this,”
he said, confidently;
so I bought oil paints at K-Mart
and sat for hours on a backless stool,
facing a homemade easel,
daubing color on canvas.
I wasn’t satisfied I’d captured the photo,
but Papaw was.
He propped the painting,
pride of place,
on the mantle he built
above his wood-burning stove.
Papaw said
I was the artist in residence.
I was 12-years-old.
