Fathers, Follies, and Fables: A memory
Sometimes you’ve got to rethink the narrative. I mean, it’s easier to see someone else locked in a skewed narrative of their own life–not so easy when it’s your own. One such narrative in mine is that my father could have spent more time with me growing up. But in the years following his death, I’ve noticed that memories keep bubbling up from the River Phlegethon seeking forgiveness, or at least acknowledgement that, “this also happened” and “this was part of your life too.” Today what bubbled up was a memory of a trip my father took me on to Louisville, Kentucky to Churchill Downs. It must have been in early summer. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t for the Kentucky Derby, but we did go to the horse races. I don’t remember anything about the trip down but I think we took one of his old Ford trucks–back when they were useful because they had beds that could literally hold an elephant. I had three stories from this memory. I think they stuck, like...