My Father Ordered Me to Strip Off My Uniform at His Cookout

Liberty?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “I’d like that.”

My father was the last one.

Of course he was.

He stood near the side of the garage with both hands in his pockets. No tongs now. No audience either.

Up close I could see grease on one cuff and ash on the front of his shirt.

“I was out of line,” he said.

That was the exact phrase he’d use. Not sorry first. Procedure continue reading …