They trudged up Gay Street on a chilly December evening like a gray army, and as I threaded the throng toward the parking garage on State Street, I couldn’t help but think of my father.
My plan was to join these seniors, along with my brother and mother, to partake of the Christmas show by the Oak Ridge Boys, and I readily confess: I didn’t have high expectations. I didn’t have low ones, either; more than anything, I wanted to take my mom, who a year ago would have attended with my father, the two of them reminiscing about days long past, when the Oaks were in constant rotation on that old cabinet console turntable in our downstairs den.