Poole & Poole Body Shop

One of our famous "jigs." So a few years ago, Dad had a little Chevy S-10 pickup that he bought from my beloved Uncle Don (the one with the wooden leg that we called "Old Knock Knock.")  Dad was so proud of that thing.

One day when he came home, he discovered a huge dent in the left rear panel. It didn't crack the paint, but it was a big booger and had him cussing his head off. He was so despondent, I took the initiative and

went to an auto parts store, where I found a heavy duty, dual suction cup thingy that promised to remove dents.  I brought it home and Dad & I went to work.

We stood next to the truck in the front yard and attached the thingy.  Dad pulled on it until I thought he would have a coronary. Red in the face, cussing like a cross between a cowboy and a sailor, sweating buckets. He took a break to I tried it, and became a miniature version of him.  On our third try, Dad got behind me to pull me while I pulled it.  I put my feet up on the side of the truck for leverage and we were both grunting and cussing straining for dear life for what seemed like an eternity.

The dent finally popped out, sending  both of us flying ass over elbows into the yard.  I landed on top of Dad and knocked all of the wind out of him, but we were both laughing so hard we were crying.  Covered with dirt and leaves and sweat, we did a little dance of triumph, which we were prone to do from time to time anyway.

Nice to remember the good stuff.

First and 10

A friend suggested I start this blog to both honor my Dad, O. Gail Poole's life and work, and to serve as an outlet for my grief and comprehension of his loss. Dad was a painter, and a damned fine one.  He was born in a small town in Oklahoma in 1935 and died in a larger sized town in Oklahoma on April 13, 2013.

There are so many thoughts and words and stories trying to come out at once...I don't know where to begin.

In mid-March, he thought he had a bad flu. I came back to Oklahoma earlier than my usual spring trip to look after him, and after endless trips to doctors, labs, specialists and hospitals, Stage IV bladder cancer was discovered.  He died 3 weeks later. I'm pretty sure there will be an angry post about incompetence in the medical profession at some point, but for now, just the facts, ma'am.

As I write this, I am in Paris, fortunate enough to be with my partner, Michael, who has work here until November.  Surrounded by such beauty in a foreign culture will, I hope, give me a certain sense of perspective.  I have some of Dad's ashes with me and I penuriously drop them from time to time when I'd like to think of him with me.

I have extreme moments of what I call "The Daddy Saddies," and as I'm having a pretty big one now, I'll sign off for the time being. But whoever you are reading this, I can't wait to show you his paintings and tell you about him.

Nicole

Paris, 20 July, 2013

conspirators