He was 45 years old. He had two small children who loved him very much, even though he was far away. He was the kind of guy that would make an off-the-wall joke on the first thing that came into his mind to anyone within proximity, and then bust up laughing. He would push girls. He would punch guys. He was the most loveable asshole you knew. He was also one of the kindest older guys at camp, always ready to help you out, no matter what he was doing. He would help you fix things, he would help you heave heavy linen bags up into the truck–even when his back was hurting him and you told him to cut it out–he would buy you a 6-pack for things you didn’t even really expect a “thank-you” for. He had tousled brown hair and shocking blue bloodshot eyes, and he would drive around on truckster with his shirt off without sunscreen, his overweight dog Olie sitting proudly beside him. He seemed to strike stuck-up guests as some kind of wild animal. He would order his dog around in Mandarin. He was like a sailor that had somehow drifted into a lake from the wide sea. He was known long ago to have eaten a bag of uncooked rice one night after he came back from a party and couldn’t find any food. He had a cat which was just as overweight as his dog. He drank too much, he laughed too much, he felt too much. He had one of the biggest hearts in this world.
We miss you.