Not My Father's Son (Alan Cumming)
Recently, I've been reviewing old posts, refurbishing some, marveling at others. One was a Father's Day post from 2021, shortly before I moved to Nebraska. (The ones I wrote to Cindy always floor me, as how can a human being say no to someone who loved them that much? I simply don't understand.) For some reason, I've become aware of my father's state of late. He turned 80 in February. When I tell people his age, they cringe. Old Vietnam War vets don't live as long as others from the same era. Living in and breathing in Agent Orange does that to you. Alan Cummings memoir is not for everyone, though I think we all can relate on some level. I was drawn to the book, which I found in a bookshelf in the clubhouse where my parents live, as I always felt I didn't belong to my father. Mostly because he made it clear we had nothing in common. There was abuse, too, of many colors. I'm not into rehashing for the sake of rehashing. This blog was an open diary, and ...