Leo was already taller than some of the men and they rarely talked to him like he was a junior at Heywood High School, graduating class of 1968. Wednesday nights, four or five men from Jim's union at Heywood Paper Products would drive up in their Ramblers and station wagons to play poker at the kitchen table and drink cold Narragansetts out of cans. Not tall and lean like Leo, but wide with thick legs, rounded shoulders, and upper arms that always needed more room than his shirtsleeves gave them. Leo liked how soft it got around the mouth under his mustache, how tender-looking. That was easy to do because most times Jim kept his eyes closed while he picked and sang.
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He sang all kinds of songs, some fast that Leo could hear in the kitchen while he was cleaning up or doing his homework and he would tap his feet, or else slow ones like "Lonesome Road," "Up, Sometimes Down," and "Motherless Child." Most times they were slow like that, and Leo would sit in the parlor and listen for a while. After a supper he would cook for both himself and his seventeen-year-old son, Leo, Jim sat in the parlor on a stool in front of the window overlooking the woods and he'd start to play.
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Though he was a white man he only sang blues songs, songs by men like Big Bill Broonzy, Mississippi John Hurt, Son House, and Champion Jack Dupree. On its west bank, halfway through the trees up Saunders Hill, Jim Suther picked the guitar most every night. THE CONNECTICUT RIVER sounded different every season it was a gushing stone roller during the spring runoffs, a narrow and quiet flow in the summer that in the fall receded to a thin clear wash leaving banks of leaf-covered mud and sunken tree root until winter, when the Berkshire snows came, and the ice formed over the rocks, and the water gurgled beneath it all as though behind a mask.