My dad was a woodcutter by trade, a jokester by disposition. He never met a bad pun he didn't like.
If he found us some fruit in the forest, he'd ask, "Orange you hungry?"
If he killed a bear and wanted my help to lug the carcass, he'd say, "Can't bear it alone."
If he was holding a box, he'd pretend to thump me with it and say, "C'mon, wanna box?"
The neighborhood witch had some sort of quarrel with him. I never understood why. She cursed his axe.
One day, the axe cut off his right arm. We had a replacement arm made out of tin.
When the axe cut off his other arm, all we could do was get him another tin one. Ought to have thrown away the axe at that point; not sure why we didn't.
It wasn't long before the axe had cut off each and every flesh-and-blood part of his head and body. He was all tin in the end.
He never let it get him down, though. He'd still pretend to thump me with a box and say, "C'mon, wanna box?"
And I'd smile. "Same old dad," I'd say.