1978 was a tough year. The Carter presidency was going nowhere and I had started drinking. I was 12 years old.
I would come upon him standing with his hands in his coat pockets staring out the closed sliding glass doors. “ I would rather die doing something I love than live doing something I hate,” he’d say. The trees would be bare and the ground covered with leaves.
The TV sat patiently in the corner of the living room ready to crackle to life at our bidding. But we enjoyed the silence. Looking at the same scene from two different perspectives I saw the empty branches and he saw the piles of leaves. .
Sometimes you wish for something to come to you so bad that when it does you don’t know what to do with it. He had already been drinking that day. I hadn’t even begun.