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Dad was a writer but instead of using his gift he drove a big red bus
Dad was one of those unusual people who could turn his hand to anything and do it well. He could fix the toaster and play the guitar; he even knew his way around a boxing ring. With his magical tricks and witty jokes, he could entertain a room full of people with ease.
A meticulous maker of intricate things; he lived his life free of debt and spent money wisely. He never drank and he never swore. Over the years he also developed an uncanny knack for being right and people often came to ask his advice.
At the age of fifty, he suddenly started running in marathons and, just for good measure, he always crossed the finish line by doing a forward roll (in spite of his bad back). He once grew a prize vegetable garden from seed, he then rewired the whole house to an impeccably high standard.
And yes, he could fix the TV set and the car, but Dad’s greatest gift was his writing. His beautiful handwritten notes always carried a beautiful majestic flow. Writing seemed to light a fire deep inside him. In his spare time, he would leave notes for anybody who would read them.
When eBay first came along he would spend an hour writing the most eloquent description just to sell an old coat. Before leaving for work he often wrote Mom a page-long letter. It’s fair to say…
