Photograph by Hugh Findlay
Hugh Findlay writes a lot, sometimes publishes, and would rather be caught fishing.
He mows his lawn on Saturdays, naps daily, and reverses his underwear in a pinch.
He can fix anything but the crack of dawn and broken hearts, just ask his kids.
He once defrosted a Thanksgiving turkey with a blow dryer up its butt.
He cooks a pretty good gumbo but can’t sing or dance.
He doesn’t believe in god or time or the “Euro step.”
He’s colorblind but can smell like a bloodhound.
He quit dying his hair and pole vaulting.
He feels funny in suspenders.
He grows tomatoes, poorly.
He likes beer.