Oct 31 2023 27 mins 1
As I write this, tears come to my eyes against my will, but the story must be told, for every fortunate boy there is a Mom and there is a Dad!
Dad was well up in age when his voice was forever hushed and he shut his eyes and rested his head upon the clay-cold pillow of his burial place—thus making his final camp to stir no more—gladly departing to join the snow-cap headed old timers of the yesteryears as he crossed over the “Great Divide,” as he termed it—thus placing his name on the ever-expanding roll of the dead who went through the pearly gates—and he came no more to calm my mind. It was here where he opened his eyes in a mysterious and spiritual backdrop of fairer days.
He had a passion, inherited from his Anglo-Saxon forbears, for the woods and streams, for outdoor life, and the adventures which attended it. He had seen life and lived life, following a primal instinct which, though it mellowed as he grew older, did not alter in his lifetime—fervently at one time or another joining into all sorts of hunting and fishing trips with his many friends and family.
