My wife passed last summer. We were up in Brainerd, visitin' my sister. Last thing she said to me - "Do you smell toast?"
Different roads, same destination.
I suppose. But the question is - for you, I mean - how far does it go? Husband dead, plus your youngest, grandson in jail, and now Dodd's missin', we hear.
Old-timers had it worse. Used to be 10 born, 2 survived - consumption, scalpings, smallpox, wolves.
Well, it's a question of what you can live with, I suppose - how many ghosts. I-I shot a man through the teeth in Vichy, France. I still see his face every night before bed.
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