My Father's House
Mr. Kunhardt, at forty, had a heart attack. Seven weeks later he began this reminiscence of ""gossamer memories"" of his own father who had died six years before that and whose presence (""the tender touching of that giant gentle hand good night"") was still so strongly with him. These then are countryfed kinderscenen of their life in an old house; of his father's activities--fishing but not hunting; gardening and roses in particular; washing dishes--or pleasures which might be as predictable as the Sunday roast or the package which comes at Christmas ""Handle with Loving Care."" . . . . ""Was his love affair with life too simple?"" Perhaps not for some.
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