Shooting the Truth

May 10 2011

My father left in 1969, when I was six and he was forty-five. He got a VW microbus, a nineteen-year-old blonde, and started making up for time lost on the three kids and the drunkard wife back in Maine. He was chasing hard after the tail end of the ’60s. I always supposed it must have been a tough time for a man to be tied down—watching all that chaos out there, while having to stay home and diaper the kids and pay the bills.

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