Always dapper, but almost
always pictured seated, which,
dapper and seated, always an
elegant combination, or it least
one that worked well for the
good doctor. In this particular
photograph his left leg is crossed
gingerly across his right – lady-style,
one might say, or upper echelon-style,
or just comfortable in his lanky elder-man
body-style – his circular specs have circular
attached shades that add a further layer to
the sexiness of this septuagenarian man-
about-town with an eggplant-shaped face
that sits not quite but just above a bowtie
that conjures a quickly slashed felt-marker line
(of perhaps half a centimeter here), and is precisely
parallel to the high waist-line of his long khakis which,
in turn, run parallel with the wooden back slats of the
porch-swing upon which he sits or, more accurately,
he’s pictured here sittin’ on a porch-swing. A front-
porch-swing, much like what I used to swing upon at
my grandmother’s (he was her uncle, as well), back
when I was a child. But would that I knew such
grace in this body of mine. The dapper doctor’s
long – and lanky, just like the rest of him – left
arm sits along the top of the swing to his left,
its elbow rests just over the top on the other
side. Follow the arm further and you can
see its four long fingers crooked right in
front of his left suspender, like a hand-
fan pointing leg-ward, but only his thumb
is at the suspender, unseen, yet apparently
holding it in its crook, just away from his white,
pressed oxford, as if to allow his heart a bit more
liberty to do its rhythmic thing (the siphoning swell,
the quick contracting whoosh, the tick the jerk of it
makes and that can be felt). These are mechanics with
which he’d be well acquainted, and intimately, being,
thus far, the singular medical practitioner in these parts for
the entirety of his adulthood. I imagine him letting out the
subtlest of exhalations, his version of a sigh, and proclaiming
to everyone and no one at all, “It’s a right pretty day, I reckon.”
And who’d refute Uncle Doctor Randall Weaver, who was
always on the verge of saying “I do declare!” And any
soul who’d hear his declaration would be hard-pressed
to disagree. Any passerby (and there were always
at least a few) would, upon getting near enough to
see Doctor Weaver sittin’ on his porch-swing’d
greet him with an “Evenin’, Doc Weaver.” To
which our distinguished gentleman, my great,
great, great uncle, would respond by lifting
his long fingers from his suspender, gently
taking the tip of his fedora between his
thumb and forefinger for a split second,
then relax his arm back down upon
the swing and drop his fingers
back to his elastics, where
they’d remain until the
next pedestrian’s
earnest greeting.
