The Man With a Feather In His Hat

I met a man with a feather in his hat sitting at the bench on the corner of Eight Mile and Beechmont. He was sitting with his legs crossed drinking a cup of coffee watching the traffic pass him by. 

He told me his name was Michael and he was a painter in the artist sense of the word.  His skin was leathery and tan and he resembled a farmer more than an artist. His light blue eyes stood in stark contrast to his reddish orange skin.

Meet Michael

Michael was born in Illinois, but lived all over the world.  He spent a lot of time in Rhode Island as a sailor during the 80s and 90s.  Although he wasn’t enlisted in the military, Michael tells me he was contracted to work for various branches of the military as a designated Naval liaison, but he couldn’t tell me much more than that.

“Let’s just say I was in a place in the world where we were an unacknowledged presence.”

Now smoking a cigarette, each draw animating his conversation, Michael gave me some advice about life on the sea. “Nature is a little bit forgiving. If you make a mistake in nature on land you might survive. If you make a mistake in nature on the water, you’re done for.”

The Artist

Michael showed me pictures of his paintings on the cracked and dimly lit screen of his cell phone.  It was hard to see, but I made out various landscapes and portraits.  He compared his style to Renoir or Rembrandt. “I love shadows,” he told me.

One of the works he showed me depicted a large eye surrounded by hues of blue and streaks of green. “This is how I remember my wife’s eyes when she died.”

Michael lost his wife Deja in 2013.  He and Deja moved to Cincinnati from Rhode Island to take advantage of the medical care Cincinnati had to offer Deja.  He showed me a picture of her.  She was young and pretty with dark hair and a serious face.  “She was half Cherokee and half Portuguese,” Michael said.

It was around that time that a feud developed between he and his daughters.  “I haven’t talked to them in years. They’re all grown up, but they don’t approve of my way of life.”

Coffee Break

We decided to get a cup of coffee at Speedway.  On the way Michael told me about his plan to clean his house out and make it into an art studio.  “I’m going to call it Dancing in the Rain.” Right now to make money Michael works at Dunkin’ Donuts down the street.

While we chatted in the Speedway drinking our coffee, a woman with a strong southern accent paid for her gas and tipped the attendant with some advice for his soul. “Trust in Jesus,” she said boldly. “He’s the only one who can save you.” She made eye contact with everyone in the store as she said this.  Michael bowed his head and nodded reverently to her as she breezed past him and out the door.  

Michael said he was a Christian and attends service locally, but he augments his relationship with God through a connection with nature.  “To have faith and to worship you have to breathe and live.  Nature and trees give us the air to do so you know. You have to acknowledge that.”

Meeting a Friend

After our cup of coffee, Michael introduced me to his friend Linda who owns In the Frame, an art gallery that doubles as a framing business.  “She’s a phenomenal person and an amazing artist,” Michael said of Linda as we headed to her shop.  

I’ve had work framed by Linda in the past, so I knew to expect her English accent.  Nonetheless, it was still a pleasure to hear her greet us with, “Welcome to my gallery,” in the voice of a fairy tale queen.  

Inside we talked about Michael, politics, business, and art. It was clear Michael had a lot of respect for Linda.  “Her art is magnificent, but she’s a little bit reserved,” Michael said implying a modesty in Linda toward the art she put off to the side to run her business.

“I just don’t do it anymore,” Linda said. “I just got back into doing some stuff, but I chose to frame instead of paint right now.”

Michael’s House

Michael offered to show me his work so I gave him a ride home where he keeps his art.  He directed me to a secluded ranch hidden behind some trees and up an incline off Nordyke.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Michael said. “I’m in the process of cleaning it out to put in my studio.”

Cluttered, but not dirty, Michael’s home was the stereotypical dwelling of a starving artist.  Books and sketches and portfolios were strewn about. The chairs and couches served more like easels than furniture. Empty bottles of protein drinks could be seen scattered about.  “I don’t cook,” Michael told me.  That night Michael said he’ll enjoy an avocado and a couple bananas for dinner.

Michael’s Art

“It’s a work in progress, but when I’m done I’m going to call it Wolfmoon, Beechmont 2:45am.” He told me he sketched the concept for it on the corner of Beechmont and Nagel at almost 3am one night.  If you look closely you can see the moon depicted as the eye of a wolf formed by clouds.  

He showed me the painting of wife’s eye when she died.  It was called The Exquisite Pain of Memory.  

Then he showed me his sketches as well. Some were of scenes and others were techniques he was practicing in his pursuit to learn the human form.  

My favorite sketch was the one he drew of the intersection of Eight Mile and Beechmont. It even depicts the bench he was sitting on when we met.

Michael also showed me a more recent photograph of himself dressed in a suit standing next to a beautiful woman with short blonde hair.  I wasn’t allowed to take a picture of it though.  “She’s a very private woman,” Michael told me. It was a failed relationship that Michael appeared to have some resentment toward. The same blonde haired woman was depicted in several paintings around his home.  She was clearly a muse to him and a mystery to me.

“She made her decision,” Michael said.

“Do you enjoy your solitude here?” I asked.

“Solitude is not all it’s cracked up to be. Solitude can stab you in the back just like a person can,” Michael said. “It’s been a journey for me to come out of my solitude.”

A little bird swooped down and landed on Michael’s front steps. He hopped once or twice then flew away. “That’s my little bird friend that visits me,” Michael said.  “He saw you and didn’t know you so he left.”

“Be who you are,” Michael said when I asked if he had any advice to offer people.  “It took me 65 yeas to find out who I am.”

We parted ways after I gave him a ride to Kroger in Cherry Grove.  We shook hands and promised to stay in touch before he went in to gather his avocados and bananas for dinner.

The Village

Earlier in Linda’s gallery, Linda said something that really helped me express what Beechmont Stories is all about.  In her charming English accent Linda said, “Although Beechmont has this sterile look that 80% of America’s shopping centers has, Beechmont is really a village. It’s a village of all different types of people and all different kinds of characters, and everybody is woven together more tightly than it appears from the outside.”

She was absolutely right about that.  There is a village here, but you have to look for it. It is my intention with Beechmont Stories to pull our villagers out from behind the chain restaurants and car dealerships, story by story, and showcase their humanity, because that is what will usher in a much needed sense of community for all of us. After all, you can’t have a village without the villagers.

Think about the unifying gift Michael gives us that we can all go to bed at night wondering if he will be sitting on Beechmont sketching the moon at 2:45 in the morning while we sleep.  Just picture him, this fellow villager of ours, a sailor with blue eyes and a feather in his hat, shading the night’s clouds in his sketchpad under the streetlights not far from where we sleep. There’s something comforting and magical about that. It’s whimsical enough to be a bedtime story for your children:

“Do you think the man with a feather in his hat will be painting the moon tonight?”

And so although Beechmont may not look like a Charles Dickens English village, we still have our Scrooges and our Cratchits and our Tiny Tims just the same all around us. It is my mission to find them, tell their story, and hopefully reveal the hidden village we are all actually a part of. 

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Related article: Anderson is Disconnected and Disengaged: Here’s How We Could Fix That and Save Lives

Did you miss Beechmont Stories: Part Five? Check it out here.