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 He died this past June at the age of 96, with a few as-yet-unpublished poems still in his old electric typewriter.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, and a few of them occupy 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, including "Dad's" shelf.

This photo earned an Editor's Pick for March 2010.

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.