A Nice Soft Day In The Pacific Northwest

 

What is the difference between a ghost and a memory?  Both arise unsought.  In the mind they look a lot alike.  On a day like this it seems like one or the other might be lurking about.

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 Here is a ghost for you: 

My father’s father grew his own tobacco.  I didn’t see how he cured it but he must have because he smoked it.  I remember him outdoors because he didn’t smoke in the house.  He wore striped overalls.  He was hawklike when old. His hair never went white. He had a harsh face with a hooked nose and high prominent cheekbones.  He actually looked like a pale Indian.  He had icy blue eyes.  I remember him squatting like an Indian in the farmyard.  One knee up and one knee down.

I have a picture of him in my mind rolling those home made cigarettes, carefully, licking the edge of the paper and rolling them tight.  He used the cuffs of his striped overalls for an ashtray.  He didn’t leave butts lying around even outside on the farm.

He was famous for hitting what he shot at.

 I wonder things about him.  He was from OK originally.  When did he learn to squat like an Indian?  What made him tick I will never know.  He was a mysterious figure to me, unlike my mother’s father who was not.

I believe that he was a bit of a hard man.  But they were back then, living through the depression times.  He was born in 1889.  I don’t remember what year he died.

The boy on the right was Ernest David S.

That was his school class.

His sister is second from the left in back.

 

Seems like some really odd touching up.

one ghost among many