like father?

I sometimes think I am becoming my father

     That is not necessarily a good thing.
     Pops was, well, a bit odd.  I am not being mean or spiteful, but I honestly think he was mentally ill.  And later in life, he had Alzheimer's, although back then they said he was going senile.
     He was significantly older than my mother, 13 years, if my math is right.  My brother will correct me, may even say I was wrong about things.
     My dad saved things.  Nuts, bolts, washers, rags, broken tools......look in my basement and see my collection of nuts, bolts, washers.  Hey, you never know when you may need an odd washer.  Or nut.
     When he drank a beer, he would pour it into a glass then hold the can on an angle and tap it several times, getting the last atom of brew out of the can and into his glass.  I find myself doing the same thing with pop.  Am I the only one that does this?
     When he walked, he usually walked next to the curb and kept his eyes on the ground, looking for spare change that might have been dropped.  Now, we were not poor.  We were not rich either, but he never stopped looking for money lost in the street.  I constantly scan the ground for coins.  I will pick up anything, even a penny.
     He got angry quickly, and so do I.
     He was a momma's boy, so was I.
     He hummed and talked to himself when he did things around the house.  So do I.
     He always thought he could fix anything, but he was not the handiest person around.  Neither am I.   I have long since stopped thinking I could fix anything.
He was proud of his kids, though he never showered us with flattery or affection.       He wasn't cold, he just wasn't the hugger type.
     Strangely, it was the wind that made me think of him today.
     We lived in an old Victorian house on the north side of Chicago, one that was built in the 1890s.
     We were constantly cold in winter.
     If you lit a candle, which I often did, and put it on the floor in the front room, the flame would flicker left and right and sometimes go out because of the drafts that worked their ways through the uninsulated walls and ancient windows.
     Dad would sleep in his long underwear, from November to April.  I don't know how many pairs he had, but he always had it on.
     I wish I could ask him questions I didn't know I had.  We have pictures of him in a car out in the middle of the desert in 1926, near Santa Fe.  There is another man and some women with him.  How did he get there?  Where was he going?  Who are the other people?
     That was well before my mom knew him.  We do know that he was a ranch hand in California for a few years, and it may have been a dude ranch of some type.  We also have pictures of him pointing to a sign that says "Keep off the Grass."  I don't think it's an anti drug reference.
     He was 48 when I was born, and by the time I was 10, he was tired.  I don't remember playing catch with him, or bike riding, or spending father-son time together.  I don't know if he did that with my brothers, but I suspect it was uncles from both sides of the family who did.
     Funny what thoughts and memories the wind can bring, isn't it.
     Love and Peace and memories tonight.