My father lived in Idaho and on Wednesday mornings he would play cribbage with his buddy up at the clubhouse. For years, I heard hilarious anecdotes about this “old guy” he played cribbage with. One day, after laughing at a story about the "old guy,” I finally asked, “How old is this guy?” To which my 82-year-old father shrugged and said, “Oh, I don’t know, 65 or 66, I suppose.”
Lisa Mayme
This is a collection of stories of my dad; some are based on old letters I wrote to him, some are based on stories he told me over the years. All are memories that shape the wonderful man that he was. Archives
January 2017
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