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May 4, 2003
I smiled at Mr. Calloway and watched him wipe his hands on his jeans before whispering “Bye” to his back on the way out the door. As I walked home kicking the tufts of grass between the sidewalk cracks to kill time, I recalled my father uttering a similar sentiment regarding my intelligence (or lack thereof) a few weeks earlier when I’d run into him on my way to the kitchen. Mom had returned from the grocery store, three bags in each hand. Dad had remained seated sipping his beer, which prompted a comment or two from my grocery-laden mother.