do-dad

My dad was a sailor, and all through my childhood he was away half of the time at sea, and to an extent I have a similar job.

His wife passed away and they had kids, and he wanted to focus on being a dad so he just stopped to raise his kids.

The fear of…Dad, of the war…yes, that…but something else…the fear that life is nor being lived right here now.

My dad had worked for a while as a ranch hand, and his “Open Road” was a remnant of those days.

The kids are out of school, Mom is out of get-up-and-go, Dad is out of work.

The ne'er-do-well blew, like seed before the wind, to distant places, but mankind at large stayed at home.

"Dad and Hans Rutter, as you know, weren't the sort of men to sit around and mourn over anything like that," she laughed.

With time this land had mounted to great values and the holders had been made well-to-do thereby.

When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear sech a thing uz gittin' up afore light to feed stock?'

His parents were of the well-to-do farming class, occupied from one year's end to the other with the work of the fields.