Would love a juicy burger with homemade fries.

However, too hot to cook.

Am settling instead, for a jameson, with a beer chaser.

Most of us turn into our mothers.

Not me.

I am my father.

He was a son of a b, granted.

And he always stopped for his daily bolster of jim beam and a chaser, at the Twins Bar, in Minnesota.

Now that bar has closed.

Too many fights.

I wonder if Hans, my dad, was a part of that.

I doubt it.

He was such a goofy #W%@%#.

And I never did see him fight.

He was one of those nightly Norwegian, Minnesotan bar flies.

And wouldn’t  you know it?

He passed that legacy down to his 3rd daughter.

So, I stop each night, to honor his life.

Oh no. not at the cemetery.

At his place of worship:  The local pub.

He worked hard.

He provided for his family.

He was a silly goose.

And cried when he watched animal shows, especially Lassie.

He loved boxing, football, and baseball.

He refused to eat margarine, canned tuna and pasta.

Give him a heady cheese,  walleyed pike, and an egg fried in butter…. and hot gravy.

He loved this country, after fleeing Norway, when the bird flu killed his Father, Brothers, and Sisters.

Philadelphia was his favorite place, but he settled in Northern Minnesota.

He married a saintly Irish colleen, my mother, Irene, and they had 7 children.

He is gone now, for many years, along with Irene and 4 of the 7.

Hey Muz, you turned into Mom.

Hey Jimmy, you turned into Howard Hughes.

Hey, Wolfie, you turned into Hans, and have become the ultimate bar fly of the Western World.

And some day, I am going back , to the frozen tundra, to live forever, and to re open the Twins Bar,  and to fight my ass off, just for the hell of it.


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