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