This was originally published in November, 2010 at my experimental "Don't Be a Hippie" at Wordpress.com. The one and only post. Today's version has been slightly revised. I don't know why you need to know. About 40 years ago, on a particular day, I was getting myself ready to go hang out at school. Not high school. But, community college. I was 18 or 19 and living at home. The daddy was retired. He happened to be home on this certain day. He may have been getting ready to go out to hang out with his retired buddies. I was in my bedroom doing whatever, when the daddy stopped at my door.  I looked over at him, and he said, "Don't be a hippie." Before I could respond, he walked away. I had no idea he knew there were such things as hippies. Most of all, I didn't think I had it in me to be a hippie.  I was not very good at being part of a group that had a moniker to it. Still.  I wonder what may have caused my dad to reach the conclusi

The Daddy, mid-1970s. My favorite photo of him. Twenty-nine years ago on this day, the Daddy died from a heart attack. He was 76 years old. Maybe he didn't pick how or where he died, but I think he was happy it wasn't at home where the Mama would've come home to find him after a long, tiring day at work. He was always protective of her. That day the Daddy decided to go to lunch at the senior center with his good friend Danny, one of the godfathers of mine. The Daddy hadn't been there for quite a long while. He hadn't been feeling well, but those last three days, I was told, he'd been going strong, visiting, babysitting, doing so many of the things he liked to do. So, there he was sitting at the lunch table. He was bending down for a spoon on the floor, I was told. He was there longer than he should have been.  "Hey, 'Pare (short for compadre), what you doing down there?" called a friend. Then, a scramble to get help for the Daddy. That was it. Whil