(This is a repost, but I thought of Art and my brother the other day and dug it back out one more time. This is in fact a true story.)

He sat near the entrance of the Red and White store.
His old baseball cap sat on his knee, its embroidery faded and gone, the logo now a faded memory from sweat and dirt. He wore clothes that were typical of a farmer's helper, dungarees and flannel button down shirt, but they had years of wear, they had retired along with him.

Art was a quiet old creature, never married as far as anyone knew and had been a farm hand all his life. He lived with his parents until they too passed on, and he remained in his home the same as when they had been with him. He never imposed and he certainly didn’t request anything special in life. He always sat in a wooden ladder back chair in the front of the Red and White Store. He would get gas for his truck, come inside and drink a coke, then place his cap back on his grayed head and leave. He was an icon in some ways, you expected him there, but you didn’t converse.

Old Art gave the town children 'the willies', he was gruff and grizzled in some ways, and his blue eyes looked far younger than his age. He never smiled and it was rumored that if Art smiled at you, he was planning something sinister. In reality he was harmless, the store owners liked him, that was obvious, but since no one else really knew him, stories were invented by the young.

Most kids in town skirted him and when you did walk past, you never looked at him. You moved quickly and said nothing. Matter of fact, we never looked him in the eye. No one knew much about him and no one bothered to know him. His private life remained private, that is, until my little brother discovered him.

Eric never felt limits; he had a need for expression and a need to experience. He was born with less fear and more energy than most. He was an adorable toddler, reddish brown curly hair and dark penetrating eyes. He read early in life and they were odd things, like obituaries. He announced one day at supper that summer when he was four, ‘that people died alphabetically’. At least that was how he saw it since they were listed so in the newspaper. He used words bigger than he was and told the most outlandish stories that you had to ponder if the child didn’t do them after all.

Eric found Art one morning. It wasn’t like Old Art was hiding; it was that Eric didn’t follow protocol. He didn’t even try. He let go of my mothers hand and walked right up to Art and stared until Art had no recourse but to look back. I remember watching in awe and fear. Eric spoke first and said “Hi. You are Art.” He said it like the man didn’t know his name and Eric was giving it to him to hang on the other knee. Art remained quiet, his face reflected a bit of curiosity. Then Eric did something that I don’t understand to this day, he climbed into Art’s lap. I think Art was as astonished as I was. I watched my little brother settle into his lap like he knew him his whole 4 years.

Everyone was quiet, except my mom, who was shopping and never really seen the event as spectacular. I lost a lot of fear of Art right then and there; he suddenly became a lonely man who was unimposing. Eric started chatting and although Art acted as though he was balancing China dishes for a while, he joined his chatter with ‘uh huh’s and nods.’

I have often wonder if Eric asked mom about Art. I think she probably told him he needed a friend.

All I do know was that for years thereafter, he and Eric talked to each other, in low tones and Art always smiled a big wide smile, he would sip coke and Eric would eat tootsie rolls while sitting where Art’s old cap used to sit.