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Freckled Whitman

June 11, 2010

I remember my mother telling me stories of her father, Alfred. They would work in the barn and Alfred would recite Walt Whitman poems to his red-headed, freckled daughter. The hay and straw was looming in the air, particles floating without rhyme or reason. Her knobby knees crossed as she stared at the man she loved most.

I never knew my grandfather; he passed away the year before I was born. That said; I know my grandfather. I know he lived a life of hard work and love.  I know that he was a quiet man who was strong in stature yet tender in heart. This all begs the question, does love transcend death? Are pieces of Alfred’s Whitman recitals still floating along side the straw on a breezy, Minnesota evening? I’d like to think so.

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