The picture is of my Dad, his cute wife, Anne and me, his cute son.

My Dad's Stories

I'm preparing a collection of stories I remember my Dad telling us as we were growing up. Most of the telling was done in the little kitchen in the apartment above the three-car garage at 3179 South Park Avenue, Lackawanna, NY.
Dad would sit in his rocker between the doorway to the dining room and right up against the side of the stove. In the evening, we'd often gather in the kitchen and, if necessary, prod Dad into telling us one of his stories. We never tired of hearing them; we'd sometimes say: "Dad, tell us about the time..." (filling in the blank with a key word or two). He would stop rocking, look at us seriously as though to say, "What are you talking about?" Then a slow grin would overcome him, sometimes evolving into his laughing at the memory. We'd all start laughing too.
Here's a sample of one of his stories:

Dad worried that the soles of his feet were getting quite leathery. He determined that a footbath using a mixture of vinegar and water would tenderize his feet. It felt so good, Dad decided his whole skin could benefit from the treatment—maybe return his skin to its pliable, glowing youth. So thereafter he bathed in a vinegar/water mixture.

He was quite entertained when he was in the mall one day, when a man passed him and suddenly exclaimed: “I smell a pickle!”

Dad wo

Dad wo