A few years before my papa died, we were sitting together one summer in the living room at his lake place on Lake Pend Oreille in Idaho. The room was bright as the sun gleamed in through the windows and, to my recollection, there was no other sound in the room except for that of our voices.
Read MoreHe sat in a brown, wooden kitchen chair and I sat on his knee. He slowly breathed in smoke from his cigar and then blew it out in rings that traveled first passed his large nose, then over his large glasses, and finally up and around his white, thinning hair. Then taking a break from his cigar he sings the song.
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