‘32 was bad. Boy’s family went to California. Then Ma got the fever and died, and Pa did what he always done in times of trouble. He run away.
I stayed in the cabin to lick my wounds. After I shot me a couple bears, and a neighbour of evil intent, I got left pretty much alone.
So there it was. Thanksgiving. Me alone. I never expected no knock on the door and I opened her just a crack. My boy stood there in his cracked boots and foolish grin.
“It’s a long way to walk from Californy,” he said…