March 14, 1935

9 thoughts on “March 14, 1935”

  1. So sweet. The first and only time I remember my dad crying was when I was a teenager and we went to see the movie “Dead Man Walking.” I don’t remember much else about that film except the convict’s long slow march down the hallway to his death and the light reflecting off my father’s wet face. I just kept looking at him out of the corner of my eye because I didn’t even know he COULD cry, especially as we hadn’t been to any funerals together.

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  2. Oh how lovely, made me cry and laugh too.

    I have an old envelope with a premium bond in it and my (unmarried) name on it, and I’ve never done anything about the bond but I keep it because it’s the only thing I have with my dad’s handwriting on it.

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  3. Perhaps a workshop about how to write about your father, whether you still have him or only have your name written in his hand? I’d sign up WITH my father, who is still trying to figure out how to write about the man who never said he loved him.

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  4. Ah, I love these. Imagine a workshop called Writing from Family. Do you believe, as the Hmong do, that you knew the people who become your family before you were born, that you chose to be with them in this life?

    Lucy, the only thing with your dad’s handwriting on it? I wouldn’t open it either. . .

    Blessed are the fathers who can cry, if only once.

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  5. with all due respect to the hmong (and much indeed is due), i’ve gotta believe there are some alternate scenarios. maybe the hmong were paying attention and got in line on time and got to choose their families. some of us were lollygagging and showed up after selection time was over, getting tossed down at random to be raised by crazy people who no one else chose.

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