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| labor laws, theology, louvin brothers, drunk pic woman, wage and hour, comedy clubs, internet anger, magazine, uncensored, footfetish, 1000, california drunk driving defense attorney, fisting, art director, radical orthodoxy, slut wife, plays, shywife, arizona driving drunk law, exquisite, radio, | he would say, "I was just falling asleep," or "The roses are very swingers red swingers this year." Early in swingers the evening on Christmas and New Year's Day, after sitting at the table all afternoon and pretending to join in the conversation, he would suddenly get up and say he was going to make onion soup, another reflex, almost an instinct, like taking Communion but no doubt performed with more sincerity, because he flung himself into it wholeheartedly, browning onions, adding water and white wine, toasting bread, grating cheese-Comté rather than Gruy?re, because it tastes better and it's French - putting it all in the oven and, most important, most important of all, stirring it seven times while it was still in the oven before adding the toast to the whole dish. His onion soup was delicious, but is the flavor of a certain dish enough to remember a father by? My mother was always there. In my childhood, during the war, after the war, too, although nothing was the same then. |
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| Myself, I stayed within range of my mother. I was rather a docile character. My father was away for the whole of the war, first at the front, then as a prisoner in Germany, near slut wife Idar-Oberstein. Would slut wife our war have been different if my father hadn't been a prisoner? You can't remake history, you have to take the world as it is with all the dead on its battlefields, the emigrations, famines, slut wife purges, and exterminations. My father wasn't entirely with us even before the war. He went to work, he came home, he did some gardening on Sundays and summer evenings. In winter he bottled his wine in the cellar; he went to Mass on Sundays and took Communion, a reflex left over from his childhood. When he got up in the morning he said, "How are you?" and didn't wait to hear the answer. He lived in a world of his own, what world you couldn't really be sure, double-locked behind an invisible door: it was a tenuous veil but enough to make him inaccessible. When I sometimes asked, as a child, "What are you thinking about, Papa?" |
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