He lived Love but never spoke of it. He was impossibly complex, subtle yet obvious, impossible to describe due to what (?), his peculiar sort of mediocrity (?), the aloof quality which was ever-present, whether shopping for a new automobile or when he in his most raggedy attire was on his hands and knees, all brown: I say all brown and dirty, playing marbles with his sons. But one could always depend on him to use only whatever words were necessary to say whatever it was he had to say.
His name was Dixie.
I called him Father.