From the beginning, my father was always there for me. He spilt tears of happiness whenever he held me in his arms. He carried me on his back and sometimes tossed me in the air. He caught me when I took my first steps and stumbled. He helped me color inside the lines and told me stories about Indians and the passage of time. He was the master chef who taught me how to make grilled cheese and spam sandwiches. He taught me how to put a minnow on a fishing line, toss it in Lake Lavon, and wait until the bobber sank under the surface of the water. He taught me how to tie my shoes and ride a bike. He sat with me by a campfire, told me stories, and set my spirit and imagination free. On the first day of school, he held my hand and walked me to the front door. With tears in his eyes, he hugged me and gave me courage by saying, “You are my brave daughter. I love you.” When mother told me to ask for his permission, he would always say, “Go ask your m...
Before the advent of America’s interstate highway system with its pristine ribbons of concrete making coast-to-coast transportation more efficient, the popular mode of long-distance transportation for Americans was riding the train. My brother and I were children of the 50s and, as such, grew up riding the train, enamored with the spirit of adventure associated with traveling by train to places unknown. Our train rides always began at Union Station—an elegant building built in 1916 and one that’d withstood the test of time, remaining steadfast amidst the ever-changing Dallas skyline. Dad dropped off my mother, brother and me at the front entrance. With suitcases in tow, we stepped onto the upper level concourse. I always paused, gasping for breath, its 48-foot vaulted ceilings engulfing me. I usually closed my eyes breathing in the musty, old building smell and gently touching the worn surfaces of its unassuming, antiquated chairs. “Come on!” Mother excla...
North Texas summers are hot and dry and generally quite humid. And in the summer of 1961, the scorching sunlight and intense heat ignited one of the worst droughts on record. The sidewalks sizzled and roasted my bare feet, and the heat permeated the already parched ground in front of our home leaving huge cracks and crevices. The grassy lawns—yellow and burnt—smelled like bales of hay that had been sitting in the summer fields too long. We couldn’t afford air conditioning; and even though the air outside was motionless, Mother opened the windows wide every morning. As each day progressed the oppressive heat thickened, singing the air in our tiny two-bedroom home making it feel stagnant and suffocating. So I often spent my summer days sitting by the open windows reading a book and—despite the still air—smelling the sweet aroma of Mother’s honeysuckle vines. Occasionally, I escaped outdoors riding my bike up and down the neighborhood streets pedaling at whi...
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