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My Father's Hurricane

My Father's Hurricane My Father's Hurricane Fred Chappell Appalachian Heritage, Volume 4, Number 2, Spring 1976, pp. 5-8 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1976.0007 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/442347/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 23:40 GMT from JHU Libraries My Father's Hurricane by FRED CHAPPELL Like dust cloud over a bombed-out city, my father's Homemade cigarette smoke above the ruins Of an April supper. His face, red-weathered, shone through. When he spoke an edge of gold tooth-cap burned In his mouth like a star, winking at half his words. At the little end of the table, my sister and I Sat alert, as he set down his streaky glass Of buttermilk. My mother picked her teeth. "I bet you think that's something," he said, "the wind That tore the tin roof on the barn. I bet You think that that was some kind of wind." "Yes sir," I said (with the whole certainty Of my eleven years ) , "a pretty hard wind." "Well, that was nothing. Not much more than a breath Of fresh air. You should have seen the winds That came when I was your age, or near about. They've taken http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

My Father's Hurricane

Appalachian Review , Volume 4 (2) – Jan 8, 2014

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

My Father's Hurricane Fred Chappell Appalachian Heritage, Volume 4, Number 2, Spring 1976, pp. 5-8 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1976.0007 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/442347/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 23:40 GMT from JHU Libraries My Father's Hurricane by FRED CHAPPELL Like dust cloud over a bombed-out city, my father's Homemade cigarette smoke above the ruins Of an April supper. His face, red-weathered, shone through. When he spoke an edge of gold tooth-cap burned In his mouth like a star, winking at half his words. At the little end of the table, my sister and I Sat alert, as he set down his streaky glass Of buttermilk. My mother picked her teeth. "I bet you think that's something," he said, "the wind That tore the tin roof on the barn. I bet You think that that was some kind of wind." "Yes sir," I said (with the whole certainty Of my eleven years ) , "a pretty hard wind." "Well, that was nothing. Not much more than a breath Of fresh air. You should have seen the winds That came when I was your age, or near about. They've taken

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

There are no references for this article.