Block · one region of the page, as the scanner read it. It may hold a whole story, part of one, several, or an advertisement; stitching blocks into articles is the next step. Text is supplied OCR.
Page 4 · column 1 of 7 · from the scan, no model involved
My father died 12 years
ago this month - June 7, 1995. His death came swiftly, without warning, without prolonged illness.
He was 89-years-old and if he’d lived a few more weeks would have celebrated his 90th birthday in July of that year.
When the news reached me, I felt as if someone had punched me in the chest. The words, “Dad died,” combing from my sister 3,000 miles away in Portland, Oregon, sent me reeling. Between tears, I boarded a flight for the west coast.
When we moved to Virginia, he would call me every week usually at the same time and on the same day. He’d want to know how I was, the children, and that missing him was unnecessary.
I didn’t really get to know my father until I was 18 and heading off to college. Until then, he was the dominant presence in the house coming and going to work each day, leaving for two weeks during the summer to attend the Naval Reserve and religiously golfing every Saturday with his “cronies.” My conversations with him were limited growing up. I can remember finagling a ride to the airport to watch the planes coming and going, Fourth of Julys at the drive in theater where they would set off fireworks during the intermission, and trips to a favorite restaurant where c
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