We’ve all noticed it.
Dad calling the power company a bunch of blubber-stealing sons of bitches.
Dad making jokes about seal-skin moccassins as if he’d had a pair that leaked in a snowstorm.
Dad telling Ernie, our Mexican-American dermatologist, that his people should stop making ice houses and start getting jobs.
Dad yelling at me for wearing my hood up like “some kind of wannabe Eskimo.”
Dad playing “polar bear” too rough with his grandson.
Dad saying things like,
“The Bering Strait is a two-way bridge,”
and
“Fucking sled-dogs drivers!”
and
“24 words for snow is 23 too many.”
None of us wants to approach him. Not even Mom.
