His positive attitude alone transformed to metaphor—as an elaborate analogy, becoming just like a representation of the intricate archeological peeling back of the ancient city of Troy, layer by layer. One could say, he was a continual revelation of archives from a culture in continual variations of itself. Distinct layers of a personal history, coded references, hieroglyphs and handmade codices, carpentry and landscape—an anomaly morphing in different shapes and patterns, spiritual and scientific, philosophical and pedagogical, high drama and vaudeville.
Indeed, Dad always appreciated a good joke. He could even laugh at himself for casual mishaps, those unexpected moments of miscommunications with others. There was a time in Atlanta when Ricky and I took Dad and Mom out to a Mexican restaurant; after the meal he asked the waiter for a sipping tequila, and randomly selected an odd bottle. It arrived with fanfare, presented in a raw oak box lined with red silk—and priced over $200 dollars a shot. Mom didn’t let him live that down for years.