Tag Archives: Dad

The Pie

The rhubarb leaves, ruffled fans waving from rosy fingers, signal his daughters like marine flags on the ship, to man the battle stations of piedom. From childhood, they watched him head to the garden after work, in dress shoes, shirt … Continue reading

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Recycling

My father used empty tin cans, stacked one on the other, starting with coffee and ending with tomato paste, for target practice with his pellet gun, pumped exactly six times before each shot.  Ping–– one, two, three, four, five, six, … Continue reading

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Some Things My Father Taught Me

He showed me how to bait a hook with worms we pulled from backyard soil. We whistled blades of grass, then pried the hook from catfish mouths. He taught me how to make a pie with crust that’s flaky golden. … Continue reading

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