I don't talk much about my parents around here, they've both been gone for a long time. If my father was still around, today would be his eighty-fifth birthday. He was a quiet and complex guy. Had a bad time in WWII. His sense of humor was very, very dry. And sometimes dark. Now you know where I get mine. He had the greenest thumb of anyone I've known. He could coax stuff to grow and flourish that professional gardeners would fail at. He was an artist, he made a living as a young man painting high end porcelains for a factory in Newark, NJ, before WWII. He could work wood, barbecue anything and pitch horseshoes like a son of a bitch. A toss that wasn't a ringer was an event. He was a home movie maker, parade lover, coffee drinker, incorrigible tinkerer and chain smoked Chesterfield Kings that he always lit with an ancient Zippo lighter. He loved a good fire. He hated wasps. He probably would have been a great blogger. Happy Birthday, Jack, and thanks.

wander with me...



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