Dad

Dad could roll a cigarette with just two fingers and the tip of his tongue. I saw him do this once in a wind storm. He would shave close enough to keep his grizzled face blue by moonlight. He could dive easy into an engine to hunt out a rattle or a hiss then twist its tail with a wrench; make it purr. He could blarney a half truth, yarn it all out to fuddle many a scholar. He was an expert drinker, astounding all-comers and never tippling over a knife edge. When he walked in my shoes I felt I could do magic also. He would tell me that I had to be a genius to be my kind of dumb. That was old-fangled conjuring, a natural hocus-pocus - I practice a little of that. myself.