While I'm on the subject, here is one more thing about my father. Last night I found a character sketch I had written about him for a college assignment in 1982. Even the paper it was typed on looks old--and yes, I said "typed." I had a big, noisy Royal electric. Here is an excerpt from the sketch--I find it interesting because now 25 years later and years after my father has died, I still describe him in the same terms: It's a big event when he makes his annual pot of stew. The counter is covered with pounds of chicken, pork, beef, cans of corn, beans, tomatoes, bags of potatoes, bottles of catsup, hot sauce, cloves of garlic, shakers of pepper, salt, curry powder, sage, sweet hazel, and a pinch of tobacco here and there. He stirs the big pot for hours, and we go in shifts watching it. When it's finally done, he dumps it into boxes and boxes of Ball jars. Then he stores it in the dark corner of the basement, grins, and says, "It's gonna be a long, hard w...