George

Mother's Day, 2013

Logan Sq.

The wind was throwing the fountain mist on him, but he was sitting strait, and I had to call three times before he opened the sky-blue yes. He was older than anyone else I had painted so far and neatly dressed; the small shopping bag on the side of the bench next to him might have been an indication that he had nowhere else to go.  “May I paint you, sir, as you are sitting here; it won’t take too much of your time…” “Yes, you can paint me, he-he…” his week voice competed with the falling water, “He-he, I am just sitting here, I am not in a hurry. Happy Mother’s day!” “Thank you. How did you guess that I was a mother?” “You are a mature woman. I have children myself, a daughter and a son…they are over 40 by now” “When did you see them last?” “I saw them here in Philadelphia a year ago. They came here to see me.” “What are they doing?” “Roaming here and there…” “How long ago did you come here?” “Some time ago. I was in California, then Missouri, my dad didn’t stay put. Oh, he was something. He could do anything: carpentering, welding, but he ended up being on the board of directors of electric factory. My son is like him. My daughter has no children; I hope she’ll get married some day. I didn’t see them since they were six and five until the last year, that is. My wife and I knew the next day after marriage that we made a big mistake. My kids stayed with her. I was trying to find them, but I didn’t know their whereabouts, I knew they where in Missouri somewhere, so I lived there for some time” “Why did you come to Philadelphia?” “Why? I work here.” “What do you do?” “Leister beams.  I sit here when I don’t work. I am living all around. I don’t have home.” “Where do you live?” “Wright here. Last year I saw my children here. They go everywhere, like myself. I like sitting here and watching mothers with young children. They give me pleasure. You know what you women do best? You put your children in a stroller and roll them past me sitting on the bench. I like seeing it. You decorate your babies so neatly, ha-ha, bows and laces, it gives me pleasure.” “Do you have any friends, George?” “Who, me? No. I had a lot of cousins. Fifty, maybe. My mother was from Irish family, Catholic; my father was American. We went to the firehouse for Christmas. The Christmas tree was always big, ha-ha.” “What do you do when it is cold?” “I sleep outside.” “Where do you keep your warm cloths?” “I don’t need warm clothes, I am all right.” “What if it snows?” “I sleep in the snow, I don’t like shelters”

If you think that George is crazy, you may be right. If you have doubts that he saw his children last year, you might be right again, but he had clear eyes and made a lot of sense whatever he was speaking about, so at the moment I had no  doubts that everything he told me was true.

Now the fountain started sprinkling my painting.  I got up. “Thank you George. May I take your picture now?” “Of cause! Let me take yours.” He got a camera and held it awkwardly.  He tried to find me there but gave up, “I cannot see you,” he said. “ All I can see is your painting of me, and there is no need to take picture of that.”  I was pretty sure, though, that all he could see was the dome of St. Peter’s. “I am ashamed now,” said George, “I don’t even have money to take you out for lunch…”