Once upon a time I lived in Atlanta. On warm summer nights I would wrap the boys in an old quilt and take them out to the big white swing on the patio. Fireflies danced across the back yard as we rocked. Japanese lanterns glowed and Skip Caray, his voice as familiar and comforting as family, called the Braves game.
It is a memory as clear and close as yesterday.
He will be greatly missed.
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