Bert West was my next door neighbor for most of my first 18 years.
I knew him to be a quiet, ex-military man, the kind that adolescents don't always quite know what to do with.
He had a passion for gardening. A passion for the Chicago White Sox and Chicago Bears. A passion for his truck. A passion for his family (wife Georgette, son Matt, grandchildren Michael and John).
I'd hear his radio playing into the summer night, as he tended the garden by porch light while Jack and I fell asleep.
When he spoke, it was with purpose and sincerity. Even when he played Wiffle ball with us he was determined.
Being a parent is a hard job. As far as I can tell, he did it without expecting much of anything in return.
He lived industriously, faithfully, virtuously. Most of us can only hope to be the same way.
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