“Daddy’s dead.” Two words you never want to hear linked together. But the deed is done and cannot be undone.
My sister Dena and I carried Daddy home to the rolling hills of Panola County, the place of his birth 75 years before. He grew up in Gary, Texas, a little freckle-faced boy who loved fishing and playing dominoes but hated plowing.
A lot of water passes under the bridge over the course of 75 years. High school and college graduations and jobs in the city and thousands of hours playing dominoes and cards and the births of three children and the death of one and retirement back home to raise cows and vegetables and a move to live with a daughter and too many jokes and quips and one-liners and quick come-backs to count.
Daddy was a trickster of mythical ...