It's little known that Coyote smokes Gauloise....

I have memories of them, now, grown up and grown past that strange time of change and blissful intimacy. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, an old, battered, square thing that wasn't as nearly as big, now I come to think of it, as my small fingers made it seem back then. I remember swinging my legs under my chair - not nervously, as I did with the other relatives who came to visit and murmur approvingly or disapprovingly, dependent on what they thought of things at the farm. No, not nervously, but with that sort of childish frustration tempered by the anticipation that makes a girl of that age hold her breath in case she does something that will prevent the anticipated thing occurring. The chairs were straight-backed and not entirely comfortable, and the table so old that the grain was starting to open up a little in the well-worn places.

Uncle Coyote always came in the late afternoon. When I was little, and something in the wind told me that he would be coming soon, so I would keep watch for him, discreetly, I used to think that this was because he had a very long way to come. I used to think that he got up at the same time as us, which was around dawn, and would spend all that time travelling to see us. It made me appreciate his visits all the more. Knowing Uncle Coyote a little better these days, with more adult awareness, I know that this is more a case of his preferred time keeping and that it didn't take him any time to travel at all, even though he did live far away.

He always made it seem as though he had just pulled up in a convertible sports car, something with class. I expect it would have been a Hirondelle, or an old model Aston Martin. I never saw one. His suits were casual, cool, gave the impression of something that had been immaculately pressed and then taken out for a night on the town. He wore brown leather cowboy boots, that may even have been snakeskin or alligator skin. I couldn't tell you now. He also wore a hat, sometimes, I think it was a fedora. I don't know a lot about hats.

His visits were always interesting because, while my other relatives (the ones who came) would politely but somehow distantly accept tea, Coyote would always settle back in one of those hard, wooden chairs as if it were the most comfortable thing in the world, put his feet up on the table, and be given something alcoholic. Usually bourbon. Without having to ask. Father would put an ashtray on the table, and if Grandfather were there he might light a pipe, and Uncle Coyote would get out one of those pungent, exotic smelling, French cigarettes.

They would sit and talk, and it was somehow the most comforting thing in the world to sit and listen to the sounds of their voices, even when I didn't understand a word and even when they were talking about me and my brother. The other relatives made me nervous, but it felt safe to be sat in the kitchen, eyes smarting a little from the smoke, wondering what the brown liquid that swirled in Uncle Coyote's glass tasted like and why he was the only one to drink it. The other relatives didn't talk much, but Dad and Uncle Coyote were really like brothers, or at least very good friends. There was a familiarity between them, a sense of past experiences shared. When Uncle Coyote smiled, the smile reached his eyes, and it had laughter in it.

Occasionally he brought us presents. Trifling things. He would remove something from his pocket and set it on the table and no more mention was made of it aside from that laughter in his eyes and the unspoken language that we knew so well. "Take it. It's yours. I brought it for you." I don't remember what those things were any more. I think he brought a yo-yo once, but I was never very good with yo-yos. I'm pretty sure there was a slinky, slightly bent out of shape, but every child has one of those and perhaps my memories are getting confused. Silly little things that nevertheless made a child think "I wonder how that works." I remember there was always some cosmetic damage, as if they all came from other children who had suddenly, after years of treasuring, thought "I am too old for this stuff" and discarded a toy carelessly into a corner with a twinge of regret for innocence lost.

He kept his cigarettes in a silver case, but he smoked a lot, and he was always smoking from the packet before the end of his visits. He had an elegant lighter, but he also had a lighter with a picture of a bunny girl on it. He kept his silver cigarette case in the breast pocket of his jacket, but the packet was in his shirt pocket, along with the bunny girl lighter.

More than once I fell asleep, head rocking down inevitably towards the table top, cushioned and surrounded by the smell of cigarettes and the warm sounds of adult talking. Dozing, still a little aware, I would hear Dad get up to take me upstairs, only to be motioned back down by Uncle Coyote. I always felt that he valued those quiet moments of contact as he carried me up to bed, and the memory of that feeling is something that I treasure to this day.

Worlds have changed since then. My brother and I lost one another and found one another again, and we have shared cherished memories about our time with our Father. Stories are told by many about Old Man Coyote and his escapades.

Coyote smokes Gauloise. I don't know if he still has his bunny girl lighter.