Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was blessed with the best uncle in the world. That little girl was me, and the uncle was by uncle Paul Filsinger.
Paul was the nicest man I’ve ever known, probably the smartest one, too. He was a great storyteller, had an amazing sense of humor, was endlessly patient with people, and had a heart of gold. He loved photography and eventually became a professional one. His eye for capturing images was spot on, which is an interesting detail about him given that he lost the vision in one of his eyes when he was a teenager.
Here is one of his beautiful photographs:
Paul was my uncle, but he was more like my big brother because he was only nine years older than me. He was a constant fixture in my life, and I’ve missed him every single day of these past two and a half years that he’s been gone. He died when he was only 60.
Last Saturday, I took part in a free monthly writing class put on by the Nebraska Writers Guild, of which I’m a member and the current secretary. Our “teacher” for the day was the incomparable Matt Mason, the current Nebraska State Poet. Matt is very funny and very kind — he reminds me a lot of Paul.
At the end of the class, he asked us to write a poem using one of his prompts and to try to integrate some humor, as Matt does in most of his poetry, into the poem even if it had a sad theme. One of the prompts involved writing about someone we loved who had died.
I immediately thought of Paul, probably because of the humor aspect of the “assignment.”
Honestly, I didn’t think anything much would pour out of me in the ten minutes of writing time we had, but by the end of it, I had a completed rough draft, and I was a crying mess — the poem awakened my grief.
So, today, I thought I’d share that very rough first draft, warts and all, and then I thought I’d attempt a rewrite of it with some explanations as to my process along the way.
Here is the first draft, the one that poured out of me onto paper:
I don’t expect anyone to be able to read my handwriting — I simply wanted to show you how I wrote it last Saturday. Here it is typed, so you can read it:
Paul's Eye
He'd trick me and I'd always fall for it --
"Tammy, I can do this," he'd say, touching his toes.
"So can I, Paul," I'd blurt out in childish pride, demonstrating.
"Which eye should I soak?"
He'd ask in impish delight.
I'd groan and roll my eyes,
Mad that I'd fallen for his ploy
And play on words again.
Later, he almost lost an eye
To a capped glass bottle exploding from a beach bonfire.
They saved the eye but not his sight.
Sometimes I'd tease, "That eye, Paul.
You should soak that one!"
Later still, his lone good eye
Became a pro at spotting distant wildlife
And at capturing the perfect sunset shot
Of sandhill cranes flying low over the Platte River.
His camera became an extension of that eye,
Perhaps a replacement for the one that no longer worked
And that no amount of soaking would cure.
He's been gone two and a half years now,
Taken by a lung infection turned deadly with Covid.
His good eye twinkles out at me from his photograph,
That impish delight still evident in the grown man's gaze.
The beauty he captured lives on in his photographs,
And if I listen hard, I can still hear him teasing me --
"Which eye should I soak?"
Now, for a few things to instantly make the poem better. First, I’ll want to change the verb tense in the beginning. I think I’ll break the poem into stanzas to show the passage of time instead of using “later” and maybe even say when those times were. Since this was simply what I managed to write in 10 minutes, I think I’ll probably expand it a bit to add more details, but for now, I’m just going to take it through one rewrite.
Paul's Eye He loved to trick me and I always fell for one in particular -- "Tammy, I can do this," he bragged, touching his toes or doing some other simple feat. "So can I, Paul," I blurted in childish pride, wanting to do whatever he could do. "Which eye should I soak?" he asked in impish delight, his eyes all a twinkle. I groaned, angry that I fell for his ploy and inane play on words -- again. As a teenager, he almost lost an eye to glass from a bottle exploding in a beach bonfire. They saved the eye but not his sight -- yet his positive outlook remained. Sometimes I teased, "That eye, Paul. You should soak that one!" In adult life, his lone good eye was a pro at focusing on distant wildlife And at capturing the perfect sunset shot of sandhill cranes low over the Platte River. The camera became an extension of him, and he went nowhere without it -- Perhaps it was a replacement for the injured eye that no amount of soaking could cure. He's been gone two and a half years now, taken by a lung infection turned deadly. His good eye twinkles out at me from his photograph, impish delight fills his gaze. The beauty he captured lives on in his photographs, And if I listen hard, I can still hear him teasing me -- "Tammy, which eye should I soak?" Tears soak mine, Paul. Thanks for being my uncle.
So, there you have one rewrite. I don’t want to work it too much today because if I work a piece of writing too much in one sitting, it loses its essence. I’ll come back to it at a later date. Feel free to let me know what you think of it so far.
I’ve attempted to paint a few of Paul’s photographs in watercolor. I can never ever capture what he captured, but I like to do it because it makes me feel closer to him again. Also, if you didn’t know this already, two of my books’ covers are photos taken by Paul. They are these two:
Here’s another of his photographs:
And here’s my weak attempt at painting it:
I should just stick to writing! Ha ha.
Have a great day. Until next time.
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Tammy Marshall