We called you Looney Toons and your son Tiny Toons because you were both kind of nuts. You both had beards and long scraggly hair, yours gray and wiry and probably home to small birds, his red and poofy. Your brand of crazy was harmless enough that you could be trusted to teach young boys how to shoot guns. Not that the requirements for such a post are all that stringent.
Among your many quirks, I remember this one the clearest: you and I were scheduled to stand on the dinner serving line the same night every week. And every week, you made a point of always serving the broccoli just so that you could bark at the top of your weezy old lungs, "Treeeees! Getcher treeeeees here!" It never got old to you. If you have a flying fuck what anybody else thought of you, it never became apparent. Your fuck-all attitude is something I aspire to.