My golly, brother, you have been gone almost 25 years, way too long and way too early at the same time. Believe me, man, I miss you. I always remember your birthday on Dec. 22, although I am four days late writing about it now.
You would have been 61 this year.
This photo of you at home near Quincy, up in the Sierra Nevada, seemed to catch you at a happiest moment: Sharp ax, plenty of firewood, warm shirt, coffee, cigarette (ugh). I know you were still missing some crucial stuff, but these things seemed to keep you going.