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The Disaffected Lib: My Ode to Bud

From the time I hit puberty we (I) called my Dad, “DeadEye.”  That didn’t change for the next forty years.

Dad came back from Britain with less than he arrived with.   Sans one eye, a good hunk of stomach, half of his large intestine, a chunk of lung and shredded muscles in his abdomen, arms . . . → Read More: The Disaffected Lib: My Ode to Bud