Isn’t it odd and amusing (bemusing?) that you mightn’t have given somebody any thought for more than 40 years, and then suddenly you wonder what became of them?
When I was fifteen years old and working in my dad’s pharmacy, I was visited quite often by an elderly fellow who had a European accent. He wrote poetry and kept me up to date on his latest “musings”, as he called them. His nickname, he said, was “Plato”.
I remember little about the poems except that one was about Bette Davis’ legs, and that his handwriting was the most ornate I had ever seen or have seen since. Mr. Barabash would hold my attention for lengthy periods of time at the drugstore. Though I was “cornered” in a sense, I don’t ever remember thinking the man was creepy, and my dad didn’t seem to mind anything about the visits.
Forgotten is the moment that I decided I could discard the legacy, the poems, of this fine person. I had quite a sheaf of papers with that careful, artistic script on both sides of each sheet, and I don’t know what became of it.
I just now found a link to the man’s biography! It helped when I spelled it correctly.