My father liked to play with words. He was a great punster. His humor was dry as salt, so dry that it wasn’t even funny unless you were another person obsessed with words.Like me.
I like to call Facebook…un…Basefook. Dad wrote books, too. In his eighties he wrote books on American History, just to have something to do. They were very dry, very boring, but that wasn’t the point. His command of facts, and his memory, were awesome. He didn’t know how to connect the facts into the emotional architecture of a story. His History Of The American Presidency is unreadable. I asked him if he used the internet for research. “Not much”, he answered. Which meant that he knew, in his memory, who ran for Vice President with Franklin Pierce, and how the campaign unfolded, who betrayed whom, what the dirty tricks were about..all of that! He was a walking encyclopedia. Dad passed at age 93 this last October. He was a good dad, though I had to convince him of that during his last week on earth. He blamed himself for not seeing what my mother had been up to. He SHOULD have seen, but it was the 60’s and no one knew about dysfunctional families, child abuse, all that stuff that has emerged in the last fifty years. I like to think that I did my father justice in the character of Max Kantro in my novel, “Confessions of An Honest Man”. He was a man of his times confronting a family mess of bi-polar disease, sadism and terrible depression. There was no tool box for him to use!
The pic shows dad, his beloved second wife, me and my beloved wife.