My cousin Eric texted me a photo of myself a few months ago, taken when I was in high school in the late 80s. In it, I am perched on the counter at his dad’s body shop, hand extended forward mid story. I look like a young Steve Guttenberg from the 80s, when we were both young and strong, head full of curly hair, brown eyes and a mischievous smile. Now, some coworkers actually refer to me as “the old man.” They’re not wrong. I have sweatshirts sitting in my closet older than a

The author, with his dad, ca. 1976. How to encapsulate a life? How to encapsulate a man who at the age of 26 met and fell in love with my mother, whose first husband left her on Mother’s Day, declaring he had found another woman, leaving her scrambling to work in a carrot processing plant to feed and shelter my older brother Ernie and me? A man who signed up for 53 years of parenting two young boys, and having another, with all that comes with it? Richard Anthony McCormack wa

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