For as long as I can remember, he called me “Mudpie”. To him, it was a term of endearment. I always thought it sounded slighting, but never let on. After he and my mother divorced, he took me for day visits one weekend out of the month. We went to the mall, a restaurant, or to the art museum. In the car, he would slap my knee, squeeze and say “Whad’ya know, Mudpie?” He seemed delighted in the smallest details of my stories. I mean, I could tell him that I found a red rock that writes, and he would exclaim “How interesting!” The gifts always came as soon as he started the car. I sat poised as he would reach into the pocket of his jacket and pull out a small token of some sort. It was always a surprise. It may have been a die cut set of Alice in Wonderland stationary or an antique gold metal razor case with a note tucked inside. The gifts were never predictable, but always anticipated. He was a handsome man, always nicely dressed, and extremely well spoken