My golly, brother, you have been gone almost 25 years, way too long and way too early at the same time. Believe me, man, I miss you. I always remember your birthday on Dec. 22, although I am four days late writing about it now.
You would have been 61 this year.
This photo of you at home near Quincy, up in the Sierra Nevada, seemed to catch you at a happiest moment: Sharp ax, plenty of firewood, warm shirt, coffee, cigarette (ugh). I know you were still missing some crucial stuff, but these things seemed to keep you going.
Happy days. Rob, Pat and John, from left. The year we got bicycles and a television set. Trooped down the stairs Christmas morning to find Dave Garroway in the living room.We had just moved to suburban Ohio from Las Vegas, New Mexico. Always the conformist, I was trying to look like an Ohio guy. Pat and Rob still looked like Las Vegas kids, minus lumps in the head from all the flying rocks — rock fights seeming to be one of the favorite pastimes of Las Vegas youth in the early 1950s. Don’t know what sign old sneaky Pat was flashing there over Rob’s shoulder. And not sure this if this is before or after Rob ran his arm through the washing machine wringer. I believe the wardrobes, except for boots, were provided by older cousins Tom and Bill. Dad was still giving us those darn crew cuts.