Veterans’ Tales by Vassar
Almost all the Western tribes had death songs; one for when they were about to die in battle, to taunt their enemy, another to tell their fathers they would soon be crossing over, and a third, if their heart was bad, to disguise their fear of the uncertainty of crossing over.
My father’s mother, an insufferable and arrogant woman, would cross the street to the other side just to chastise black miners who did not doff their hat to her as she walked by. And she was from Indiana. My grandfather had a small side room where he kept a bed and a small library of religious texts, while my grandmother’s bedroom library was filled with Mickey Spillane mysteries. She shook her fist and railed against God all the years…
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