My maternal grandfather, Edward Kilcrin.  I have a vivid memory of him in about 1971, driving his big, new convertible, with his hair slicked back and his shades. Instead of reading us stories at bedtime, he made them up. And he sneaked us out for ice cream without finishing our dinner. He was a brilliant man. Fluent in five languages, a writer, poet and philosopher, and gourmet cook. And probably why I like drunk, moody Irishmen.