Saturday, May 7, 2011


My Dad puts the Scotch in Scotch-Irish. He owns 7 fancy whiskey glasses into which he lovingly pours Johnnie Walker Black.  He sits down, sighs deeply, then takes a slow drink. He extends his arm, languidly rotates his wrist and stares at the amber majesty encapsulated in his tumbler. Sometimes, the 7 fancy glasses end up in the dishwasher because I like to drink orange juice while pretending I'm Don Draper. When these glasses are unavailable, my Papa seeks out alternate containers.

In March 2007 visited my parents house for a friendly visit. Sadly, the power was out so I couldn't commence my intended Xena marathon. As I traversed the dim house I stumbled upon my Pop. He was  roosting at the end of his bed, staring out the window sipping his beloved Johnnie from a candle holder. This is possibly the clearest painting I can draw of my Dad: sitting in the dark, alone, drinking from a waxy, decorative cup.

Perfectly content.

Don't worry I won't claim to be Irish when I go to Dublin.

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