Over a period of about 40 years, my Dad, Harold Pickett, wrote several books of poetry and delivered more than 3,000 humorous presentations to groups throughout Ohio, Indiana, Michigan and surrounding parts -- mostly as "Slim Acres," or more recently, "The Buckeye Poet." He died this past June at the age of 96, with a few as-yet-unpublished poems still in his old electric typewriter. I've managed to collect copies of most of his books, so today's entry shows a few of them on a shelf at our house.

In case you're wondering, I'm a collector of just about anything cat-related -- replicas, boxes, teapots, you name it -- all of which are tucked in just about every spare nook and cranny that they'll fit into.

For those who don't already know and might be interested, I have a blog of his poems that I update with a new one each Sunday. Perhaps the one that brought him the most attention was the one that was published somewhere in the late 1930s in Readers Digest:

Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue,
But they don't get around
Like the dandelions do.