George

George was an imperfect man. He drank heavy and he liked to play cards and he was a pool shark. George had operated an illegal bar and had a private still and probably done other things too.

George grew up fast. When he was twelve, he left home and started his adult life. He worked from then until he was sixty-five, fifty-three years. He worked through a depression, when no one worked, he worked at different jobs, but he worked. He was a butcher, a grocer, a factory worker, an inspector, a barkeeper, a speakeasy owner, and through all the years, he earned a living. His family survived and he put food on the table and a roof over their heads. They were educated and brought up with values.

George had time for people. He could make you laugh and he could teach you. In my own case, he spent a lot of time teaching me. There were little lessons, but the important lessons he taught me were how to be myself. He knew more about being true to yourself then anyone I ever meet. He explained the importance of honesty, both to others and to self. He was Buddha and never knew it.

George is gone along time now, but I think of him often. He was my friend. He may have been imperfect, but George was the most perfect man I ever meet in my life. I treasure every day I ever spent with the man.