Mama always said me and the old man were two of a kind and now just like he once
did I work these woods north of the CP line. Mama gets upset when I call her.
She's living home alone and I guess the old man's voice in mine always sounded
the same over the telephone. Papa's been gone six years now. He got to choose the
how and when and where he'd die. I think about him after work sometimes once I've
passed the halfway point on a fifth of rye. Papa told me once a man must work
if he's going to take care of his and you've got to work the big woods when
that's the only work there is. But the big woods will just use you up, drain your
strength and soul and ask for more until you find yourself a broken man pushing
40 who just can't do the job no more.
Tonight in this bar I caught myself holding a cigarette the same strange
way he did. So I raised my glass and I drank a round to the old man and the
old man's kid. I believe I was the last one to see the old man alive. He lost his
job at 41, took himself out at 45. I saw him walking down the tote road with his
12-gauge pump and a pint of rye and it just wasn't in me to stop him.
Goodbye Papa. Goodbye.