My feeling is one of a man bound to wonder about his father. To put flesh on his bones and make him live again, to tell the family story and to feel that somehow they know and approve. For me it is more than a cold gathering of facts, it is a breathing of life. I am the storyteller of the tribe. All tribes have one. My true father, the inspiration, was a man of words and passion; a writer. I look to those who have touched me and my life, been a part of my quest. How many graves have I stood before and cried? I have lost count. How many times have I walked up to a grave and felt somehow there was love there for me? I cannot say. I write because I don't know. 

Arthritis has attacked the joints I care about most. My physical therapist puts me through hell. My wife has banished me from the kitchen. My kid/adults tell me I’m not helping myself to live long enough to see my future grandchildren. I'm close to seventy, need spectacles to read and am losing my hair while still cultivating ways to further extend my belly. So when asked about achievements, my response is simply that I'm here. I made it.