1.0The Sourcehttps://the-source.netrich600338<blockquote class="wp-embedded-content" data-secret="jmXOzXKtDi"><a href="https://the-source.net/our-town-books-2/">Our Town Books</a></blockquote><iframe sandbox="allow-scripts" security="restricted" src="https://the-source.net/our-town-books-2/embed/#?secret=jmXOzXKtDi" width="600" height="338" title="“Our Town Books” — The Source" data-secret="jmXOzXKtDi" frameborder="0" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" class="wp-embedded-content"></iframe><script type="text/javascript"> /*! This file is auto-generated */ !function(c,l){"use strict";var e=!1,o=!1;if(l.querySelector)if(c.addEventListener)e=!0;if(c.wp=c.wp||{},c.wp.receiveEmbedMessage);else if(c.wp.receiveEmbedMessage=function(e){var t=e.data;if(!t);else if(!(t.secret||t.message||t.value));else if(/[^a-zA-Z0-9]/.test(t.secret));else{for(var r,s,a,i=l.querySelectorAll('iframe[data-secret="'+t.secret+'"]'),n=l.querySelectorAll('blockquote[data-secret="'+t.secret+'"]'),o=0;o<n.length;o++)n[o].style.display="none";for(o=0;o<i.length;o++)if(r=i[o],e.source!==r.contentWindow);else{if(r.removeAttribute("style"),"height"===t.message){if(1e3<(s=parseInt(t.value,10)))s=1e3;else if(~~s<200)s=200;r.height=s}if("link"===t.message)if(s=l.createElement("a"),a=l.createElement("a"),s.href=r.getAttribute("src"),a.href=t.value,a.host===s.host)if(l.activeElement===r)c.top.location.href=t.value}}},e)c.addEventListener("message",c.wp.receiveEmbedMessage,!1),l.addEventListener("DOMContentLoaded",t,!1),c.addEventListener("load",t,!1);function t(){if(o);else{o=!0;for(var e,t,r,s=-1!==navigator.appVersion.indexOf("MSIE 10"),a=!!navigator.userAgent.match(/Trident.*rv:11\./),i=l.querySelectorAll("iframe.wp-embedded-content"),n=0;n<i.length;n++){if(!(r=(t=i[n]).getAttribute("data-secret")))r=Math.random().toString(36).substr(2,10),t.src+="#?secret="+r,t.setAttribute("data-secret",r);if(s||a)(e=t.cloneNode(!0)).removeAttribute("security"),t.parentNode.replaceChild(e,t);t.contentWindow.postMessage({message:"ready",secret:r},"*")}}}}(window,document); </script> To Dad Reader, please forgive me. I’ve got fifty years of memory to debrief, so this’ll take a while. There was that time in St. Louis; Dad was our church youth group leader leading us astray … We boys were happily lead there while Mom lead the girls in her own way, gently, somewhere in the neighborhood of “Kumbaya.” Meanwhile, Dad marched us boys onward and downward into the nearest bar. Hell, he wasn’t about to let some pious pretense get in the way of his own holy rite – Happy Hour – especially when the Norton-Bobick fight was scheduled for that night. Well, Dad had hardly finished his first beer when Duane went down. It took less than a minute for the Jacksonville native to win this time in New York – Madison Square Garden. The rest of the night Dad kept insisting to the barman that Norton beat Ali at Yankee Stadium the fall before. The bartender countered that you had to KO the self-proclaimed “Greatest” boxer in the world … to take his title. Dad said a win is a win, that Ken was robbed of his rightful place in the history books. Whether it’s true or not, I’m not letting that happen … to Dad.   Lighter than a Balloon I’m writing you down in my history book. I’m keeping you here in this journal like the photograph of me in your arms in our family album, the one in which I’m holding a balloon by a string. We’re on the steps of the Capitol next to Mom and Paul Findley. I’m two years old. You’ve just earned your graduate degree from Gallaudet. But I think you’re more proud of your little boy than you are of your diploma. I hadn’t done anything to deserve this pride, other than being your boy. Well, that was a enough, more than enough, to make you beam like the hero you were to me, as I clung to that string the way you clung to me, just as I hold fast to you  now, now that you are out of reach and lighter than a balloon.