He was a man unlike any other in existence.  His quiet and gentle manner had always had a profound effect on me, yet  I was often left amazed at the workings of his mind.  Usually a man of few words, any topic of a philisophical or psychological nature brought forth an articulate, intelligent, thorough and lengthy discussion from him.  He is very, very wise, and has always considered his children’s budding intellect to be top priority.

As a child, we spent many an afternoon reading together in his favorite chair.  While most children that age were enjoying “The Three Little Pigs” and “Dr Suess”, his literature of choice for these occasions was often “National Geographic” magazine, a history book, or anything of an educational nature.  His patience was neverending, answering all my questions as honestly and thoroughly as possible, encouraging my young mind to be as inquisitive as it could.  My mother would express dismay when he let us turn the furniture over to build a “fort” and he would then very matter-of-factly explain to her that we were “learning” about our environment.  He often pitched a tent in the backyard if it was raining, and made it his bed for the night, enjoying the sound of the rain pattering on the tent’s fabric.

He was not a man one forgot upon meeting.  His physical appearance alone is striking.  Short in stature, he’s thickly built, with a distending belly, short legs and long arms.  The straightness of his back in combination with the thickness of his arms and legs often reminds me of a silver-back gorilla.  His face is so incredibly handsome that even other men would often comment on his good looks.  His dark eyes are slightly hooded and nestled under thick, straight brows.  His cheekbones defined a perfect oval-shaped face, and his full lips complimentesd the firm set of his chin.  The gray mustache he had worn throughout most of my life was, upon closer inspection, ever-so-slightly tinted yellow on the bottom from years of tobacco use.

As I watched him now, playing in his backyard with my two-year old nephew, I had to chuckle at the sight of him.  He wore tan cut off shorts that were frayed, the hems reaching his knees.  His threadbare, lightwieght and short-sleeved shirt sported a loud, too busy pattern.  He also wore his prized possession, a very old, worn out pair of birkenstocks and two differnt colored socks.  My nephew began to fuss, tired of learning how tulips grow, and my father, changing tactics, scooped him into his arms and pointed into the sky.  He spoke earnestly to the child, this time explaining, very thoroughly of course, the differnt types of clouds.  As my nephew listened, the clouds began to move, and my father, never to be considered a slouch in the teaching department, began to explain thunderstorms.

They turned and headed back toward the house just as the first rain drops fell, and just as it struck me that my time with him is now limited.   His diseased lungs had put him on borrowed time, and I was left with no choice but to accept it.  I watch as he laughs with my nephew, and it occurs to me how thankful I am for him; to be his legacy and to be instilled with so much that is the essence of him.