Our kindest and tenderest emotion
Do you remember the day you left home to strike out on your own? I do. It was in October, 59 years ago. The oldest of six children from a large close-knit family, I was the first to cut the apron strings and move into a place of my own. It was time to leave. That spring my father, at the age of 40, was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Dad ran the feed mill in town and it was obvious his working years would be cut short by the illness. One less mouth to feed, I figured, would help the situation. Equally obvious was the fact that Dad and I didn’t see eye-to-eye ...