Maybe it was thoughts about Geronimo or the brick smokestack jutting up against the dark Milwaukee night that made me think about the lean times when I was a kid back in New Mexico. I stood outside my parent’s bedroom door and could hear them talking about money, how we’d be lucky to have enough food for the family through winter. My dad said he’d take me and we’d go to California to work in an asbestos factory. A bricklayer friend of his had called the week before telling him about the job.
literally stories 