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January 22, 2006

choices

In every photograph I ever saw of him, he always wore a hat. In 1948 he was twenty nine with two sons and counting. If he was in the right mood, he was an ex-marine who could clean out a honky tonk in the time it took to order a six pack to go. His daddy back in Kenucky taught him two things: how to dig for coal and how to use his fists. Many of his problems were solved with a good right hook and coal mining paid for the good times.

A man like Bud does not wait around when the world starts to close in on him. When number three came along in late December of 1949, it was time to make some choices. Sticking around Hannah, Wyoming working for the railroad digging coal to run the big steam locomotives and paying the never ending rent and grocery bills was one.

Warm sunny days in California wine country and a fresh start was the other. There was plenty of young women working the orchards there who would appreciate what he had to offer.

By June of the next year, he was ready to make up his mind. He packed his gear, fired up his 1946 Ford Deluxe and headed for his promised land.

Time can change a man - make him look at life and the choices he made with a broader perspective. It can make him regret those choices - seek redemption and a second chance. Sometimes fate lends a helping hand. Most times it don't.

In 1966, over powering guilt or the desire to relive the good times and correct his mistakes finally forced him to make another choice. He could do nothing and always wonder about the sons he left in Hannah or he could try to find them. But sixteen years of living can cover up tracks and make it hard to find the things he was looking for. He hired a detective to do the foot work. He had them located in a state in the deep south and a letter was mailed.

Things were looking good but fate would only tease him. Before he could make his move, he died suddenly on a lonely stretch of highway near Oakland, California. He had a blood alcohol level so high it was a wonder he could even find his pickup let alone start it.

He had no more choices to make - all the rest would be made by some one else.

Posted by roadapples at January 22, 2006 09:28 AM

Very powerful. Your dad?

Posted by: poopie at January 22, 2006 12:52 PM

Same question as Poopie. This looks like a picture of my dad and his two sons in 1958.

Posted by: Fred at January 22, 2006 06:05 PM

Re: my previous comment.

Case closed.

Posted by: Jennifer at January 22, 2006 06:12 PM

If his DNA was subjected to a paternity test, I am told he would pass. But calling him "Dad" does not feel right on my tongue. It does not feel bitter like lime but salty like a pretzel that dries your mouth and leave you wanting a nice cold beer. I have been curious about him my whole life. Strange but I can feel him with me when I look into my children's faces and wonder if he would have approved. Yes I think he would yet I never knew him.

I am the one teetering on his knee. I know of him through the stories my mother has told me.

Posted by: road apples [TypeKey Profile Page] at January 25, 2006 09:10 PM