Since I was so young when my mom left him, story is the principal way I got to know my dad. The earliest story I know about him vis-à-vis my own life is that he was annoyed when my mom went into labor with me on a Saturday night because he was tired and didn’t feel like driving from Ellijay, our rural Georgia town, to the city hospital in Gainesville.
The next story in my chronology is of him punching a bedroom door while my mom held me, an infant, in her arms. She said he destroyed the door while I screamed.
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