We were driving back from meeting Ellie's mom on Saturday when my phone rang. An unknown number in Wyoming. My heart quickens when I see these things. Our son, Andrew, is a cowboy in Wyoming and two weeks ago was Colt Starting Week Clinic. He was responsible for putting first, second and third rides on colts that were previously only halter broke. Last week he continued to work with those three horses, and seven other equally fresh beasts, day after day by himself ten miles down a dirt road from the next ranch employee. Unknown phone numbers from Wyoming could be a hospital, or a doctor, or his boss. Either could be delivering bad news.

Or it could be Andrew borrowing someone's phone to ask his mom how to order a shirt by the neck size. Breathe.

While working on my masters in Composition and Rhetoric, I spent a semester writing about my experiences with literacy - the stories, people, and moments that shaped my view of reading and writing. The following are experts from that larger work; each story centers on the role my father had in the formation of my literacy practices.

The weekly walks to and from the public library with mom were full of laughter, skipping, and splashing in puddles. In my memory, Concord’s weather was always post-storm, blue-sky sunny with a few lingering puddles for the children’s sake. I have no memories of the library itself, only the route there and back. Our limit of books was determined by what we could carry. Perhaps backpacks and totes were used on the other side of town; rough brown cardboard boxes from the grocery store were our containers of choice. Once home, a small room off the living room served as our own library. My older brother, Ed, and I would carefully place the books on the long built-in bookshelf under the two large wood windows.  For hours while Ed was off at kindergarten, I would sit alone on the hardwood floor reading. Oddly, I do not remember if I could actually read.