I look at pictures in my albums of a man who I always will admire. He is not perfect, he’s made mistakes in parenting and being a husband, but he is a good man.
He went into the marines at the young age of 18. This was in the middle of his training to be a chef. After Vietnam, he came home with scars no one could see.
In the ’70s, he grew the famous Magnum P.I. Mustache that always gave my cheeks a rash when I got kisses. In the ’80s, my sister and I would sit in the back of the station wagon he drove and make faces at the people driving behind us.
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