This scrawny, gangly little boy with a twisted elbow after falling out of an ice house, and ears to speak of, is my Dad. Gone 6 years ago on this day. Hard to believe when you look at that little guy born and bred in the Depression that he would grow up to fly to Japan during the height of the cold war and teach about engineering, cultivate a mean blackberry patch, be forever chagrined that none of his children were basketball stars, write various geneaology books, master computers, belt out a church hymn, hunt moose with fervor, found a historical society, fix anything - I mean ANYTHING, stoke a wood fire to within an inch of its life, design and construct his own homes and camps, sire 11 children and 24 grandchildren and running, build a proper darkroom in his basement, dance elegantly to the big bands, never tire of enjoying a piece of pie, and give cancer a decade-long run for its money.
Amidst teething drool and diaper changes, translation deadlines, private lessons, and a in-law visit, I take pause over here on the French Riviera to remember the little Vermont boy who left so much and so many who loved him behind.
