Well. . . it's official. I'm in love again.
This time it's a widower, a man in his late 40s. . . father of two. . . an attorney.
His name is Atticus Finch.
He lives in the Deep South, among an appalling racism that is shoulder deep, yet he has taught his children that being a racist is like cheating. . . cheating at being human.
He takes every difficult case, even if the client can't properly pay him, and he raises his kids, rather than pawning them off on female relatives, and he is always there. . . always there. . . for his children, his community, his clients, his neighbors.
Yep, he's there for his neighbors, and that Miss Maudie across the street knows it, too. It's so obvious that she wants to get her gloved hands all over him. But, guess what, Maudie? I make a meaner casserole than you. I make a meaner cobbler, too. (Disclaimer: this is absolutely untrue).
Either way, back away, Maudie, 'cause Atticus Finch is my dream man, right up there with Augustus McCrae and Rhett Butler. . . and, rumor has it. . . he looks a lot like Gregory Peck, too.
Hell, even as a drawing. . . he's a giant of a man.
It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived.