My grandpa Dusty created an indelible template, I think. He was handsome and charming, a man's man and a ladies' heartthrob. He loved sports and people and cards and his grandkids (the little guys). I hold close the quiet moments on the back porch looking at the broad summer Kansas night sky while he sang, "Mr. Moon."
Another of my favorites is a dashing British gent I've had the pleasure to work with overseas: Babu Bill. A walking lexicon of culture, he's equally liable to break into a line from a mid-century operetta or recite Tennyson. Or, fashion a hat from lunch's folded napkin and sing off-color sailor ditties.
At my volunteer job there's Jim, a 70-something raconteur who makes the hours fly by. He's quick with high fives and jokes (what do a redneck divorce and a meth lab explosion have in common? somebody's gonna lose a trailer) followed by a howling, contagious cackle. His Navy-inspired anchor tattoo is faded but he still razzes the Army veterans who come in for food and conversation. A former boxer, he relishes his old nicknames: Canvasback Jim. The Beagle Street Bleeder.
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More pictures from around town on Photobucket.
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