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My father is a tall and honest man. He always reaches out a long lean arm or comes in for a suprisingly tight hug (for a man of 1950's reserve) with a hearty--Hey guy! I say this now too.
He loved my mother through many angry years when she was unlovable. (She would never admit it, but I know she is grateful now and thanks her lucky stars they never hung it up.) He enjoys mildly off-color and ethnic based humor.
My father wanted to be a history professor, but came from a family and time when "Business Major" was the only college alternative. He was a dedicated though ultimately failed business man. See "honest" above. He reads long biographies and naps through History Channel programming.
He makes a mean breakfast. Thin buttery pancakes, ham and cheese omeletes, perfect bacon. I got up too early as a kid and we would have long mornings reading on the porch or on the family room floor, walks to the bakery or drives for the paper and then I'd sit at the kitchen table and watch him make breakfast as the rest of the house finally stirred. It was the only part of the day that I was never in trouble.
My father does not complain. When I've tried to complain to him, he is quick to point out that I have four working limbs, my health, family and friends. This was infinitely irritating in adolescence and infinitely comforting as an adult.
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