My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
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Saturday, August 15, 2015
Road Raging at God
He passed me on Route 101, crying and raging, his face red and swollen by tears and the very terror of his anger. I thought as he pulled alongside he was yelling at me, but there was no object other than God. I know because I have done so myself, though I confine my shouting to two-lane roads, unwilling to share this ritual with other motorists.
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