He looked at me with sparkling eyes- a touch of dry, wry wit.
Never losing his grip on his smooth cedar stick with his right hand.
Using his left hand with perfect gaited temperament -a sharp knife held
To roll off shavings to the front porch- later to disperse in the warm summer breeze.

"Never would I ever get a haircut in the month of March." he said,
"Always leads to headaches throughout the year until well into January."
He stopped for a minute to roll him another "Grit Newspaper" cigarette.
Always making sure that I was upwind from all of the tall tale telling.