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June 19, 2005

Volume 2, Issue 19

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We'll call this one Father of Mine. Take it somewhere. And Happy Father's Day.

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She was having second thoughts about the whole thing. She should just stand up and walk out the door. Why had she ever come up here in the first place?

But she did trust him, and knew that he did have her best interests in mind. He could never betray her.

But here, in this dirty, barren bedroom? She had always imagined her first time happening in a place of great beauty and grandeur. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Well it couldn't be helped. At least he wasn't looking at her.

"Bless me father for I have sinned...."

Posted by: Gahrie at June 19, 2005 8:21 AM · Permalink

She’s doing it again. Just like every morning.

I love my Betsy. You couldn’t ask for a better daughter.

But this is getting damned annoying! Every morning, right after her chores, she comes in here and just sits on that chair. She knows I can’t sleep when I’m being watched.

There’s plenty of other stuff she could be watching. This is Utah, for Christ’s sake. There are things going on here all the time.

What am I going to do?

In 1927, Philo Farnsworth invented television. Just so Betsy would have something else to watch. And then Philo slept in.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 19, 2005 10:56 AM · Permalink

Daddy was always a big man with broad shoulders, a broad heart and an even broader smile.

During the long summers, Daddy would clean watermelon juice from her face. Then she’d wipe his face, too, and they’d laugh. At night, they shared stars, fireflies and whispered what-ifs.

He kept winters cold claws at bay as she sat on his lap by the fireplace, sharing a quilt and reading aloud while Mommy made bread.

But the influenza had not been kind. Now he was pale and frail and failing fast. He would join Mommy soon.

“Shall I read to you, Daddy?”

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 19, 2005 12:47 PM · Permalink

"I've always hated this wallpaper."

A long suffering sigh. "Yes, father, I know."

"And that picture of the horse. Why is that still on the wall?"

"I don't know, father."

"I don't know why I keep a picture of your mother's horse. What's the point?"

"You could put another picture there, if you like."

"It wasn't a very good horse. It always tried to bite me whenever I got too close."

"Perhaps the horse knew you didn't like it."


"If you say so, father."

"I think I need more of my medicine."

"I'll get it."

"You're a good daughter."

Posted by: david at June 19, 2005 2:56 PM · Permalink

All he did all day long was lie there in bed. Sometimes sleeping -- most times sleeping -- but sometimes awake and awful chatty. Folks came and visited, though less often than they used to. Papa had always liked his peace. Mother or Aunt Judy or I would bring him his food so he would not have to get up. There were some days where they actually fed it too him. He never even had to get up to take care of nature's necessities. And he was so skinny now!

Papa was so lucky. Clara hoped she got the consumption one day.

Posted by: marc at June 19, 2005 3:58 PM · Permalink

She looked around the apartment, taking in the four walls, a door in one side and a single window, nailed shut, directly opposite. No fresh air, just a steam radiator for warmth; a hot plate; no running water, just a communal bathroom down the hall.

She told him, when he brought her here after her mother had died at Pine Ridge, that it was not healthy to live within four walls. A lodge should be round, the circle representing the circle of life. He would not listen; now her father was dying.

Soon she would return to the reservation. Alone.

Posted by: hnumpah at June 19, 2005 8:39 PM · Permalink

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