In Mexico, Missouri where Dad had gone to high school and Grandpa was a Friday regular at the Jefferson Hotel, I was an insider. Daddy knew everyone and, as far as I could tell, everyone loved him.
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Little David pulled open the door and held up his arms for a hug. Snot dripped from his nose onto his red plaid shirt. He wasn’t sick when I’d left two days ago to give birth in
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In 1974, David greeted his newborn brother with joy and a dripping nose. I decided their first meeting was more important than the risk of a snot-filled infant. My husband Vic took photos as I put little
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“I miss Dad,” I told Mom after my father died when I was 14. “I don’t know what to do.” “I can’t talk about it,” Mom said. “I have to go to work. I don’t want to
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