I received Dad’s letter, this one dated and written on his seventy-eighth birthday. Anyone who had ever heard him speak would also recognize his writing style as they were one and the same; Dad never minced words and, more often than not, his profanity was repeated throughout his passionate, raucous yet loving, ranting.
I had occasion to share this lively piece of correspondence with friends who had never met him; to my delight, they all took great pleasure in reading it. For the brief few minutes it took one to absorb Dad’s expressive vocabulary and enter into his reality, a reader enjoyed a common brotherhood of emotion and, more often than not, a lighter sense of burden. Some of them more than likely gained insight into my father’s daughter as well.