Dad's father, Woodrow Orville "Woodie" Poole was a painter at some point in his life. Dad had a few of his pieces in storage that Grandma apparently hung onto. Mostly landscapes, woodland creatures and a couple of angels. They're all on rough board and look like they could be hanging in a saloon in Deadwood. And surprisingly, they ain't too bad. What's profound to me is that my Grandfather could find materials and take the time to paint in the "Dirty Thirties" of the Dust Bowl.
I don't know the story, but Woodie left when Dad was around 5 years old. For some reason, a photo was taken of Dad on that day, which I only discovered after he died. The title of this photo is "the day my father left ca1939."
Dad never talked about Grandpa, and I don't believe they ever had a chance to meet. I wonder if Dad's decision to become a great painter had anything to do with pleasing his own father, if he was just genetically driven to express himself with paint, or a combination of the two. I can guess, but I'll never really know.
As I try to come up with things to write about, for the most part I sit in front of the screen, staring at a blinking cursor that dares me to try to summarize a man's entire life and my own reactions to his loss.
The reason I write this tonight is because a cousin directed me to a website they've put together for the Poole/Sharp family. It's truthfully the first information I've had on the Poole side of things, other seeing our family name scrawled on the prison walls inside the Tower of London, having vague memories of mention of County Tyrone, Ireland, and knowing we come from Samuel Cephus Pool from South Carolina. (The names alone are worth the visit. Somewhere I have an ancestor named "Verb," and a Great Great Grandmother named Missouri Eddy who was full Choctaw Indian.
Got me to thinking why I don't know anything about an entire side of my family.
Some hurt never heals, I suppose. I hope mine eventually will.