I never called him Dad. I was already grown and living on my own when he and Mom married, not the first marriage for either of them. So Dad just didn’t sound right to me. Instead, I called him by his name, Jim.
Friends from the old neighborhood and the Fisher Body plant in St. Louis where he spent much of his working life called him Red. They did so even after his hair no longer matched his nickname. Red suited him. Like the color, he was big and bold and cheerful—and yes, sometimes a little loud.
Jim dreamed big. He always had projects, plans and ideas brewing, some of them a little goofy maybe, but some of them verging on visionary. And as he aged, they shifted from schemes to get rich quick to ways to save the planet, or at least a little corner of it. Continue reading “All quiet in the kitchen this week”







