As a young adult, I was fond of reciting passages from his work with as much enthusiasm as other literary folks in my community quoted Langston Hughes or Gwendolyn Brooks. I grew up on his titles, which had popped regularly through the mail slot as offerings from a book club for beginning readers. I was a budding poet then, and would tell anyone who asked that my favorite poets were Henry Dumas, Smokey Robinson, and Seuss.
As was our habit, I grabbed a pile of books, plopped down on some soft furniture, and began to read to him for an hour.
While he painted and drew and made homemade paper, I took his 2-year-old brother to the library across the street. Louis and had just dropped off my 6-year-old at his art class. More than 30 years have passed, but I remember our encounter vividly.
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