This is an IHeart podcast.

Guaranteed human. This is Lee Habib, and this is our American stories, and our next storyteller is from Fort Worth, Texas.

He moved us with his story, The Real Santa.

Roger Latham is back, along with his daughter Candy.

Let's take a listen.

A number of years ago, as I sat in my office, my father entered and handed me six small notepad-sized pages. Thought me you might like to read these, he said. Although I did not know at the time,

it might have been a good thing if he had provided

a handful of tissues.

I'd need them.

The words on the page were written in pencil.

I recognized at once my mother's distinctive flowing cursive.

I knew it well because she had faithfully written to me for all of my three years defending America from raging Germans.

It was 1967, so it could easily have been Vietnam.

These pages held a blank verse poem. I began to read. It was easy to realize it as the musings of a

middle-aged woman with a soul deeper than the deepest sea. When I finished, my cheeks were

streaked with saline.

I'd never known my mother to have such depth.

Then it hit me.

I too write words in rhyme, retrieved from the deep place, fathombed below the surface of self.

I smiled to thank of the unexpected genetic gift my mother had provided.

Too often, I'd push such thoughts aside.

Texas boys don't write poetry and certainly don't cry.

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