The News-Gazette | L DeYoung
Many years ago, long before the town of Fithian had street signs, I would walk through the door after school to see my mom crying. She didn’t know what we were going to have for supper.
Maybe, if my dad was lucky, he would bring home a pheasant, or squirrel, or some fish he caught from a local pond. Maybe we would have the frog legs that he and I had gigged the preceding Sunday.