My father never wrote me a letter or postcard his entire life, even though I was anxious to keep in touch with him and with my mother. He never called me on the phone, and never talked to me on the phone when I called my mother.
There was no active hate or loathing on his part, I believe. He just didn't believe in communicating with anyone who wasn't buying a beer from him at Aarone's Bar & Grill, on East Hennepin, where he worked for over forty years as a bartender.
He rarely came home before I was in bed, and was usually gone in the morning when I woke up. He had a second job at the Minneapolis Athletic Club, as a towel dispenser.
He constructed his own Fortress of Solitude, and lived in it for most of his life -- self sufficient and wary of all visitors.
I didn't want that to happen between me and my kids -- but it nearly did.
After Amy divorced me, I hoped to achieve something great and fantastic -- something my kids would look upon with pride and brag about to their friends. Maybe get famous as a stand up comic or write a great big fantasy novel. But nothing like that ever happened. I sank lower and lower into poverty and depression, until I had to flee the country to Thailand to avoid being arrested for back child support.
But I never stopped writing my kids letters. And I always included a self addressed stamped postcard for them to reply.
This was all nearly 30 years ago. Now I am documenting those postcards they sent to me here on my blog. Front and back.
Is it possible that Trump will really let the USPS go belly up?
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