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He never seemed old to me. He stood with the intensity of a coiled spring, a compact bundle of energy and fierce determination. His dark, piercing eyes challenged the world; his stubborn jaw defied it. The years hadn't mellowed him much. Even in his seventies he wore his hat cocked. He belonged here. He and this hard prairie were alike - rugged, fierce, and enduring. Each stood ready to battle the other every day. His daughter, my mother, chose hardships, harsh weather, and isolation to place her sons in the care of the best man she knew. Mum and I both called him dad.
