I spotted this on a fellow blogger’s site.
Read it for yourself.
I spent my days in youthful endeavors. Playing baseball in the field where the high school now stands. My dad, a laborer, walked to work every day regardless of weather. I cannot remember him ever staying home. My mom typed envelopes evenings for the local fuel oil company to earn extra money.
At suppertime, my mom would stand on the back steps and ring a cow bell, calling me home. Every kid in the neighborhood knew what the bell meant. Responding was not an option. I would quickly ride my bike home, wash my hands, and join the family at the table. The food…
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