{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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