Mr. Steve “Steel Lung” Henderson Quotes in The Mighty Miss Malone
The man said in a hoarse voice, “My Darling Daughter Detha, don’t you recognithe your Deareth Delightful Daddy?"
I looked again.
The man’s voice was rough and hacky, like Father’s after a long night of coughing, but Father never had such a bad lisp.
He was too small to be my father. He was bony and scraggly-looking.
[…]
Jimmie ran onto the porch.
The poor hobo reached out his hand and mumbled, “My Genuine Gentle, Jumpin’ Giant, Jimmie!”
Jimmie’s face hardened. “My Fine, Friendly Father Figure?”
Maybe it’s because the story is so sad. But Father always tells us, “There’s a thin blurry line between humor and tragedy.” When he was working regular at the mill he’d told me and Jimmie, “I’ll give each of you one whole nickel for every joke you find that isn’t cloaked in pain or tragedy.”
We’d tried as hard as we could to earn a nickel but couldn’t come up with a single joke that didn’t have someone getting killed or hurt or made fun of or embarrassed or mocked.
Father told us, “And the more tragic something is, the more jokes you’ll find about it.”
I couldn’t think of anything more tragic than what happened to those poor men out on Lake Michigan, yet Father’s story didn’t have one smile or laugh in it.
And no alliteration. Something wasn’t right.

Mr. Steve “Steel Lung” Henderson Quotes in The Mighty Miss Malone
The man said in a hoarse voice, “My Darling Daughter Detha, don’t you recognithe your Deareth Delightful Daddy?"
I looked again.
The man’s voice was rough and hacky, like Father’s after a long night of coughing, but Father never had such a bad lisp.
He was too small to be my father. He was bony and scraggly-looking.
[…]
Jimmie ran onto the porch.
The poor hobo reached out his hand and mumbled, “My Genuine Gentle, Jumpin’ Giant, Jimmie!”
Jimmie’s face hardened. “My Fine, Friendly Father Figure?”
Maybe it’s because the story is so sad. But Father always tells us, “There’s a thin blurry line between humor and tragedy.” When he was working regular at the mill he’d told me and Jimmie, “I’ll give each of you one whole nickel for every joke you find that isn’t cloaked in pain or tragedy.”
We’d tried as hard as we could to earn a nickel but couldn’t come up with a single joke that didn’t have someone getting killed or hurt or made fun of or embarrassed or mocked.
Father told us, “And the more tragic something is, the more jokes you’ll find about it.”
I couldn’t think of anything more tragic than what happened to those poor men out on Lake Michigan, yet Father’s story didn’t have one smile or laugh in it.
And no alliteration. Something wasn’t right.