My father was an artist, a metalsmith, a wood carver, an architect, a folksinger, a terrific cook and a brilliant flamenco guitarist. He jammed with Bob Dylan and with Woody Guthrie. He was charismatic and difficult. He was intense of emotion and quick of temper. He was a fast driver and a restless adventurer. On Halloween, he dressed as Emiliano Zapata, complete with real antique bandoliers and a greasepaint moustache. He often picked me up from school in a topless brown MGB, and the last car he owned in his life was a vintage British khaki LandRover with a hand-painted sign on the door that read "No Tengo Rancho". His hands were beautiful, and with them he could create absolutely anything he set his mind to. When I asked him for a sailboat, he carved me one from fruitwood, sanded and varnished to perfection, with a working rudder and a linen sail. He never went to the doctor and he never got cold. In the bitterest of winters, he wore a cotton shirt, a down vest, and buckskin gloves. He was never without his worn and flattened cowboy boots or his faded red bandana. When I was a child, he and I used to sing a duet of "Me and Bobby McGee" at parties.