My Great-Grandfather, Granddaddy's Daddy as I understood him, used a wheelchair for much of his adult life because of crippling rheumatoid arthritis. Granddaddy was taking care of him and the family farm when he was about my age: 21, exempt from the World War II draft because of his father's condition. I never knew my Great-Grandfather, I've seen his paintings though. Because he could not use his hands he would take the brush in his mouth or between his toes to paint. He painted what he knew: a home, dirt road, pecan trees, all with warmth and the deepened yellow hue of a peaceful country evening.
It seems to me that he set the standard for us, Ayres men. All of us painting with those tiny, and patiently careful strokes of ability without ambition - learning to see the warmth and light in ordinary scenes. We paint with the wisdom of a man thankful for his hands. If it seems, to us, we must always do things the hard way, this is why.
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"Once, when I was a little boy,
I stepped on a nail and had to get a tetanus shot."
"Did it hurt?"
"Oh yes, tetanus shots are the worst."
"I hope I never have to have a tetanus shot in my foot."
"Me too, son."
"Daddy?"
"Hm?"
"Do all sons have to go through everything their daddies went through?"
"What?"
"I mean, because you stepped on a nail does it mean I will?"
"No."
"Okay."
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