White-Washed
MY FATHER DIED this past year, and every week or so, I visit the town cemetery for a chat. Dad wasn’t the easiest man to talk with when he was living, but now that he’s dead, our conversations have improved. He and my mother are buried under a catalpa tree, which will provide nice shade come summer. Not that they’ll care one way or the other, but I appreciate it. When I visit my folks, I drop in on others residing there as well—my best friend from childhood, Tim Hadley, and his parents, Ralph and Evelyn; my high school viceprincipal, Harry Bradley; and Doc Foster, who collected trash in our town when I was a kid.
Doc was
