My father bought the cabin the year I turned eight. It was on a small lake in the middle of Michigan, three hours from our house, and for the next twelve summers we drove up every Friday night with the windows down and the radio on.
My father bought the cabin the year I turned eight. It was on a small lake in the middle of Michigan, three hours from our house, and for the next twelve summers we drove up every Friday night with the windows down and the radio on.
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Comments (6)
Loved this. Made me want to call my dad.
You are right Grace. My uncle told me at the funeral that his own father had been the same. It is a whole hidden literature.
Grace it is always the same story. The device is just the excuse.
Grace thank you. I read your Blitz piece the same day. Kindred pieces I think.
The first beer he handed you at fifteen. I remember mine exactly. My father died before I could remember to thank him.
Yara she would love that and she would hate that. Both at once. That is Khadija.
Do you have more of the photographs your dad took? Would love to see the dock.