My father always said that no one taught him to swim, that he simply jumped into the wide mossy ditch with all the other boys and learned then and there on his own. He did not say he had already learned by watching, while dancing naked with glee on the bank in the hot summer sun.
Some of the same vineyards that were there in his childhood were there in mine and beyond. By the time I had left for Oregon, I had also helped plant some.
And on the seventh day,
God removed his dusty shoes
to feel the water between his toes
in the furrows of my father’s
Songs and Letters, July 10, 2007
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