Day 10 The Dubliners Sick Note

My father was a plasterer by trade. He came from Ireland, and wound up in the United States around 1952. He was a skilled craftsman with an eye for detail. Everything he did, he did with care. He attended to everything thoroughly, never rushing anything.

He had a dry wit, and enjoyed a good joke. When my uncle came over, about once a year, he'd go off on a rant about Irish politics for five to ten minutes. This provided tremendous entertainment for both of us. My father would sit and listen, nod his head, and occasionally comment. I wonder now if his comments succeeded in winding up Uncle Mike even further. My father always had a hint of a smile on one corner of his mouth, and I know he quietly laughed at his brother's annual rant. I would watch my father and laugh inside, too. This is for him.