A Letter from My Dead Father

My father’s death was not expected; he was only thirty-nine years old, healthy and vigorous when he went to work one day and did not come back.  He died from Coronary Thrombosis, the same silent killer that later killed newsman Tim Russert. In addition to my mother, he left behind three children, me at age 19 and my brothers ages 17 and 6. Since his death in 1979, I cannot count the number of times my family and I would’ve given anything to hear from him again.  And then one day, we did. Continue reading

Trash cans in the night


Trash can photo by Aaron H Warren     CC-BY-2.0

I was about three years old and sound asleep on a summer night when my father woke me up and said, “Lorrie, come on.  I want to show you something.”   I climbed out of bed and followed him out to the back porch.   He sat down on the porch steps, sat me on his lap and whispered in my ear, “Be quiet and watch over there.”  He pointed  to the corner of the garage.  I sat there quietly staring at the corner of the garage where the metal trash cans were kept, just outside of the range of the light that shone from the corner of our house. Continue reading