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In the days before he squandered his wealth, Grandaddy Huddle ordered kits of fishing gear, photographic equipment, and an oil painting outfit that included an easel, brushes, paint, and even a palette and smock. The one painting he completed was of a woman with a red sun behind her and her husband who sat on a porch with a shotgun across his lap. My father, affectionately known by his sons as Doodles, took up painting-by-the-numbers. His vision of blue jays hung over the toilet to be reckoned with by any urinating male. Aunts and cousins crocheted, made quilts and needlepoint, and sometimes Aunt Stella played guitar and sang. Grandmama Huddle dipped snuff, closed her eyes, rocked to Montovani’s silver strings on WYVE, occasionally smiling to herself.
David Huddle’s books include My Surly Heart (LSU Southern Messenger Poets, 2019)
Copyright 2020 David Huddle