November 6, 1893 (Chicago) I’m nine years old, and I’m scared. Papa died yesterday. Momma tries to hide her tears, but who will take care of me? Who will pay for my voice and piano lessons at
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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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My Father’s Day story, “Running from Dad’s Death,” was posted at Open to Hope today. It’s about the last time I saw my dad, just a few days before his death. I was fourteen and scared, unprepared for death in a way I can hardly
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“If you have your health, you have everything you need,” Dad said. He looked fit, played golf, and smoked Lucky Strikes like the doctors in Life Magazine ads and the other men in Mexico, Missouri in the
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Before Grandpa died when I was nine, I often visited my grandparent’s farm where Dad had been raised. I lived with my parents and brother in Mexico, Missouri, 12,000 inhabitants, Audrain County seat with an old fashioned
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