Dear Dad:
I love cemeteries. It’s all your fault. Yes, I am fascinated by the names, history and stones, but, it’s more than that. When I was about 10 – it was the mid ‘70’s – you pulled me out of religious school early and headed to an unveiling. You were driving that horrendous orange Buick that you bought used, in beige, and had painted your favorite color. What you were thinking?! I don’t know. But that’s beside the point. Continue reading
My daughter answered the phone. Her voice went up an octave, and her face forced a smile, as if the caller could see her and she needed to convey welcome. Translation? She had no idea who she was talking with. But, a well-trained clergy kid who can make small talk with the best of them, she chatted with whomever was calling her grandmother. I watched from Mom’s kitchen, trying to guess the caller’s identity while Mom slept in the living room, unawakened by the ringing phone.
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