My father died 20 years ago this month, his massive barrel chest had shrunk to teenage proportions. His tree trunk legs looked like dead saplings. I watched him die in inches for 10 years. He had been a Roughneck, Sheepherder, Hard Rock Miner, Amateur Boxer, Saddle Bronc rider.
My slightly insane mother was forever chewing his tired butt. She never recovered from seeing my brother mangled on the highway.
This chapter in your book brings back visions of my youth. My father died penniless, but he was one of the finest humans I know—worked to death, broken, by the same fucking bankrupted, soulless, money changers of materialism. I’m damn proud of my low station in life.
Work to the top, yes—then strangle the bastards.
-Anonymously yours
