The Red Flannel Rag

drove my brother, John, to the airport to leave for Viet Nam, Dad asked me to drive the

car back home. That was an unusual request because he didn’t really trust my driving.

He got in the back seat. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw him wiping the tears

with his big white handkerchief. He never made a sound.

Dad loved fried potatoes; and, in the same way his daddy, Grandpa Austin, had to

have bird egg beans every meal, Dad had to have fried potatoes every day and twice on

Saturdays. He raised wonderful potatoes in his garden every year.

Dad in his garden hoeing potatoes after a long, hard day of work at th e feed mill

My favorite memories are of him in his potato patch. I think now that the only

real peace Dad had after he returned from the war was when he was in his potato patch.

I have a picture of him hoeing the weeds between the rows. I always wanted my Dad to

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