Just a heads-up that some stories I’ve written here are now in “private mode,” so no one can see them except me. Why? I’m in the process of switching my entire web site to a new design, and that takes time. It’s weird how it seems just yesterday this web template was “state of the … Continue reading
As a child growing up in Montana, I imagined my cowboy grandpa’s life to be as inspiring and majestic as the mountains around me. I was wrong. Continue reading
I can’t get no satisfaction. I grew up wanting more, and why not? It was my culture. Even the Rolling Stones’ Mick Jagger wailed dissatisfaction over a girl dissatisfied with him. But why? Blame it on TV… Continue reading
{Note: I wrote this on the flight to his funeral, after my dad died February 18, 2012.} Arthur Holter Born: Montana. Died: Wisconsin. Forever Home: Montana. May the circle be unbroken. My dad loved road trips. He died talking about them. There it is: that corded telephone. Dad was chatting with my older sister … Continue reading
February 18, 2012. A year, how can it be? Gone.
We, his children, dig his grave and bury him – our father. Continue reading
Dog bones and Thanksgiving–what’s the connection? It’s the meatiness of solid relationships – not wispy, virtual ones – that are most satisfying… Continue reading
Growing up in Montana, Good Friday was an often snowy, three-hour noontime service, “Seven Last Words From the Cross.” We got the day off from elementary school for such religious things back then. (Yes, I lived in ancient times.) Impressionable, I’d shed a tear as our Lutheran pastor whispered those first words from the cross: “Father, forgive them…” … Continue reading
My dad died suddenly a few weeks after all this happened. It turned out to be my last story for him, my last gift to him…. a lasting gift.
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