Excerpt
“What would you do up here all by yourself?” I asked my father.
He was leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed, the cigarette held off at an odd angle, like a girl. He brought the cigarette up to his lips and took a deep swallow of smoke. “I suspect I’d do what I’m doing right now, Danny, trying to scratch out a livelihood in the north woods of Michigan.” He started to raise the cigarette up to his lips but he stopped halfway. “Which may be another way of saying I’d try to tilt at windmills.”
I didn’t know what “tilt at windmills” meant and I didn’t really care. But I was beginning to understand that my father could sometimes use words to keep the truth away, rather than to bring it closer.