Ian McRae, our friend, shearer, and poet, is a regular at the dinner table these days, and that is a pleasure.

Ian is giving up most of his shearing clients but is still writing poems and attending regular poetry readings. He hoped to take an online poetry class, but not enough people were taking it, so it was canceled.

I’m not a huge fan of writing or art or poetry classes personally; I never took any. I believe in learning by doing the work. But that’s up to him, not me.

Ian has changed. He is radically more comfortable with himself, and our dinners are a pleasure, full of laughter, stories, and talks about the future. I’m not a mentor any longer, but a friend. I’m glad to call him that, and so is Maria.

Ian is hardly recognizable as the nervous and confused kid wanting to write poetry.

It is just a part of him now, just who he is. He has a job he likes and a life he desires. And his work read at readings has been well received. He could never have read one of his poems to strangers when I first spoke with him; he does it all the time now.

We’ve heard many of his poems by now; he’s the real deal.

Ian insists on paying us for the food we give him. I got a $20 bill last time. He always brings a book.

He is one of the people I love, and I am happy to take his portrait as he stopped to visit with me before going to a poetry reading. He wore a tie and jacket bought from a Vermont consignment story.  I never expected to see him in a tie and sports jacket.

I am grateful to know him. He is someone I admire as well as love.