I was young when my dad died.

Not so young that I don't have memories of him or that I didn't understand what death

was, but I was young, nonetheless.

I was young enough that all I remember besides being told the dad had a horrific accident,

and the funeral was that soon.

I was packing up and moving to a new house.

My dad had been the breadwinner by far, and we just couldn't afford to live in our old

house anymore.

To this day I can remember my poor mother crying.

Back then I'd assumed that my mother's consistent weakening was just because dad had died.

Now, well, in my adult years I understood that it was also because she knew that she

couldn't provide for me as well as he could have.

Our nice two-story house in the city was just far too expensive for us at that point.

We had to pack up and move a couple hours away to the countryside, which my mother had

to take up two jobs in the small town near us to be able to afford.

Our new house was pleasant.

It was small, but it was nice.

It was located in a pretty well-to-do neighborhood.

The people who lived around us weren't rich, not even middle class, but at some of the

biggest hearts I'd ever seen.

I remember getting endless mac and cheese dinners from neighborhoods with big smiles after

moving, and non-stop peek-and-pies when the season was right.

...