He was born in Key West, FL, in 1932. He was a civil servant for most of his life, working for the United States Postal Service and eventually becoming postmaster in a small town called Pahokee. He told the corniest jokes in the history of the English language, some of them so bad it would make you grind your teeth to nubs. He lost his wife, my stepmom, a few months ago. He was fine a few weeks ago when my wife and I visited, but the decline began shortly after and accelerated quickly. He wanted to go painlessly and at home. He got his wish yesterday.

William Robert Archer, my father, has passed away at the age of 90 in South Florida.

In a way, he was responsible for my radio career. He kicked my ass to get a job. I had two lined up: One was in a drug store stock room, moving boxes around. The other was at the local radio station, spinning records and talking on a microphone. I chose the latter. It sounded better than unloading delivery trucks. I was still in high school, and it was 42 years ago. I’m sticking with it until I figure out what I want to do with my life.

I wrote a short story some time back about a dog I used to have. In it, I put some real memories, dressing them up in different clothes to add to the authenticity. But one of the memories is straight out of reality, completely unadorned, un-recast, un-rebooted. A very early memory — my dad is carrying me under his jacket in the rain. So there he is, my dad, on stage, playing his role so well. Read and enjoy if you wish.