I've studied this picture in detail in an effort to develop my dad's character for a project of historical fiction that I'm writing. They say my grandfather once fought a grizzly. My grandmother had a laundry service for the well-to-do women in town. People have told me that my dad sat atop a horse at the age of 2. That fact defined his character, and perhaps was one key point that drew my mother to him.
My dad died months before I was born. The practice of writing has breathed life into a man I've only seen in 2-dimensional pictures. In my mind now, he has a laugh that sounds like air escaping from a balloon filled with air, the neck taught to squeeze the sound out of it. He loves a good Chet Atkins guitar lick. My dad has a quiet, wry sense of humor. He thinks things through, and is a gentle, giving spirit.
Happy Birthday, Dad.