Where the Writing Journey Began
September 11, 2001, changed the world forever. On a personal level, I discovered several months after that day, that there was a group of babies who were destined to grow up with similar experiences to mine. They are the children born after that day when one of their parents died in the attacks.
Just like those children, I only know my father in pictures and other people's memories. How did he laugh? Did he have a certain way of listening? Did he touch one ear absently? Did he stay long at the table after a meal or was he the kind to go out the door?
Do I look like him, walk like him, talk like him?
Bill Clinton describes the lifelong issues of the fatherless child very well: "I think the fact that I was born without a father, and that I spent a lifetime trying to put together a picture of one had a lot to do with how I turned out."
There's always been a sense of obligation to live for two people, this shadow of a father, and then myself. In my writing I begin to make sense, sort through and separate memories of others and an innate sense within me. And so, I write... about him, about me, about what he might have told me, where he lived before he knew my mother. Riding with the Sheriff's posse, doing chores on a farm in Utah, being from a Mormon family are all glimpses of this man who had a sense of spirituality beyond religious boundaries.