The father

I remember going to the library with my dad on Sundays; he’d go listen to the classical music LP’s and I’d look for new and interesting science fiction books in the huge, downtown Houston library. Afterwards, we’d stop by a joint near Memorial Park called the Westcott Drive-In, in the 4th Ward. I’d have a Big Red while he’d have a beer.

I remember going on extended hunting trips with him on the weekends when I was in junior high. We were both learning how to hunt at the same time, which was interesting, considering our relationship. My father was always the one to take care of everything, he was always in control, and always had a bit of advice for any situation. So, these trips down to the wilds of South Texas were a bit liberating for the both of us, I think. It was the first time that I ever heard my father swear- and all of a sudden, it was as if I’d been initiated into a secret club, masculine and rich with the odor of gunpowder, wet ditches and bird’s blood. I remember what it felt like to have a dead bird slung over your shoulder as the sun rose in the sky, making the heavy clothes hang on your body more and more.