My father, like a lot of fathers I suppose, had his
particular place in the living room, on the right side of the sofa, next to an
end table which had a good lamp for reading Time
or the Rutland Herald, and which had
room enough to put down the bowl from a late snack – ice cream or maybe
cereal. He was that sort of man,
with that sort of life, who looked forward to something in the evening in a
bowl, instead of a glass.
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