I first met Dave in Spanish class in Patzcuaro, Michoacan. Although Dave’s Spanish was much superior to mine we ended up in the same group.   After class we usually strolled down to the main plaza and sat down in one of several cafés under the gothic arches of the colonial palaces surrounding the plaza. We would sip coffees, play cribbage and tell stories.

Dave and I took an instant liking to each other despite or maybe because of our completely different backgrounds. For Dave life was one big practical joke with endless variations. He was a natural story teller and most of his yarns were about his crazy family. Dave’s fantastic family history included a saint of a mom, a knife wielding schizophrenic ex-wife, a lovable, alcoholic twin brother, a golf-pro lesbian sister, three dysfunctional kids and a myriad of other odd ball relatives, all of whom he dearly loved. Dave’s family history was the modern equivalent of 100 years of solitude in Minneapolis.

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