I am only my memories here. Formed of the stories shared with me.

First there was my grandfather. Dude. I once saw a photo of him. It was probably taken around the second decade of the 20th century. It was in a small, almost non existent town in East Texas. He had maybe 10 kids in his class. They all looked like cartoon characters of how you would imagine a deep East Texan hillbilly would appear. Except one. My grandfather. he had jet black hair styled like James Dean, before there ever was a James Dean. In a group of coveralled, bad teethed, and crooked hair cuts my grandfather almost looked surreal standing there. Crisp white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, staring down the lens with his sharp eyes, square jaw and widows peak pompadour. This is why they called him Dude.

When I was growing up in the 70s he was already in his 60s. He spent most of the week wearing coveralls, boots, and a baseball cap but when it was time to go to town, no matter the occasion, there was this beautiful ritual of primp. My grandfather combed his still dark black hair back with VO5 and plastic comb cooler than John Travolta.

These photos are from when he was in his 60’s. The sad thing is that when I was a kid my grandparents house burned down. There were a few burnt pictures but not much left. I will find those pictures out there one day. They are waiting like little gifts in time.