Roo

He stands there in a trench coat, hat upon his head, drink in hand and I should think he is a man, perhaps even a detective, but I know the truth.

He is an actor, an imp, a boy in a man's body, ready to play: a game, a part, a role in the world that defies being named.

The scripts are as varied as the Library of Congress stacks.

One day a worthy pedagogue pacing the halls of Oxford, England. The next an author peddling his book in Oxford, Mississippi.

Dawson's Creek, PBS, the U.S. mail, all have benefitted from his innate talent.

He is a tetrahedron among men. Not a jack of all trades, master of none, but a master of all trades and jack of none.

I have a CD case full of his music, a bookshelf full of his writing, a brochure of his travels through Greece and Ireland, Italy and Wales, but it is his softer side I love the most.

The one that encapsulates Roo and Rawrio, Tiki Bars, and boy with a dog. The one who speaks to a room full of septuagenarians as seriously as he does Deans and Presidents. The one who calls me every day while walking his dog three miles simply because we love it.