My stepfather led a horrible life. He was a poor country boy in his homeland, and eventually joined the army, where he fought in a long and bloody civil war where no quarter was given, and none asked. Eventually, his side lost, and he spent a year in his own country a hunted man with a price on his head, never sleeping twice in the same bed, endangering his family and friends who sheltered him from the secret police, torture and the firing squads.

Eventually he escaped and came to America, where he married my mother and became a kind and decent stepfather to me. I heard rumors that during his war he had done terrible things to his enemies, but I had no way of following up on the truth of those rumors--or perhaps I just chose not to.

He never really learned English, and I suspect he was illiterate in his own native tongue. But he worked very hard and he treated his new family very lovingly, and gently tolerated my mother's increasingly hysterical temperament. He had an incredible sense of humor, which, from his example, I came to see as an appreciation of the total absurdity of existence. I was amazed at how such a simple man was able to come up with such an appropriate response to life. I have spent my own life trying to cultivate that same philosophy. Face the world with feigned indifference, a hidden smile, tongue in cheek and eyes rolled firmly back. Nothing makes sense, but you still have to deal with it. Its the only game in town.

He worked very hard until he was no longer able, then spent his last years in the country raising fighting cocks fot the arenas in Puerto Rico and rare birds for the flea market pet trade. He lived to a ripe old age, eventually succumbing to bone cancer, a terribly painful and excruciating death. He suffered greatly his last few months, while those who loved him were powerless to do anything to help him.

I think he appreciated the irony. I miss him terribly, but that does no one any good.