Tis the holiday season, a time all about being with family—in addition of course to the over eating and overspending parts.
Not surprisingly, after spending the last couple of days with my partner’s grand folks, I found myself thinking about my own, long deceased ancestors. Particularly my grandfather, Philip Amsden.
I didn’t know very well when he was alive, but a few years ago I read a manuscript he wrote about his life, and was greatly surprised to discover that the strange old guy with the raisin skin that smelled like wet shoes was actually pretty interesting. A chicken farmer most his life, my grandfather’s true passion lay in painting and writing, apparently spending many a night pecking away at his typewriter or fiddling with his latest canvas in a tiny office thick with the stench of bird poop. I have smelled chicken coops before–from a very distance–and I gotta say that’s some serious dedication.
So thank you gramps, you inspire me.