Wednesday, March 11, 2009
He was like a father to my father, who worshipped this old Italian gentleman. I don’t remember much about him, except his sitting slouched in a chair with a cigar in his mouth, and I couldn’t understand his thick accent. He owned the building where we lived in San Francisco and was appalled when my father painted over a mural that was in the kitchen.
Posted by Bev Sykes at 12:01 AM