December 1st, 1969. A group of college kids crowded round the TV. Each left as his birth date was called, his future having been decided—Vegas style—by the luck of the draw.
David Davis struggles to put food on the table, literally.
My daughter is coming of age in a society struggling to overcome its own shortsightedness, greed, and failure. But in her eyes, I see no condemnation and no angst for the future.
Why is it that men so often have little to say to the men closest to them: their fathers and sons?
In the face of death, all bravado fades.
David Davis watches his daughter grow up and leave the house for college, just like his son a decade ago.
David Davis takes a hard look at himself, his children, and what it means to be a father.
His forearm flashed instantly. With the snap of his wrist the back of his hand cracked against the corner of my mouth.
“This is a coffin?” I thought to myself. I’ll be damned if I’ll bury my son in a beer cooler.