saying, the colonel’s ranch had 22 large windows stacked 11 per floor and eight white pillars each two feet thick across the front. My father made no apologies for living well. The main house was over 9,000 square feet with barns and outbuildings sitting in perfect white brilliance, behind a twenty acre manicured lawn. He’d built a half-mile long, tree and four-post fence- lined drive leading up to the house. She was definitely right - his over the top consumption was as conspicuous as though he had billions, not millions.
Sarah continued, “Anyway, our place is much cozier.”
I said, “That’s one of the things I love about you, you’re always right. We can’t be filmed anywhere near that place until after the election.”
“Have you been working on your stump speech?” Sarah asked, sounding tired.
“Yep, we’ve got a team of good writers working on it, so far it’s pretty good. We meet to work on it every morning. Want to hear the first line?”
Sarah said, “Sure.”
“Americans are called to freedom,” I spoke it like an orator. Punchy and tired she giggled. Then, turning to her side closing her eyes, “I love it, Jack.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I must have been exhausted because it was the first night in a long time I slept completely through the night. In the morning, my cell phone rang. I always kept it on the nightstand under my lamp beside the bed.
Still groggy, I wanted whoever was calling to know they had woken me the hell up, “Hel… lo.”
The voice on the other end had obviously been up for hours. Sounding like he’d had too much coffee, “Jack, your mother and I would like you and the girls to come down to the ranch for Thanksgiving. How about it, Son?”
My father, Theodore James Canon, nicknamed the Colonel, not because of any military service, it was a fond name his friends called him. Partly in fun, he lived in Kentucky and partly because he owned five thousand acres there. The colonel was 79 years old and had the beginnings of dimentia, though only close family knew it. He’d been bound to a wheelchair the last few years. Suffering from severe arthritis, he could stand only briefly, sometimes in stabbing pain.
Other than the chair, the Colonel looked great for a man his age. He had thick white hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, shiny blue eyes, and always a happy smile. His big worn and nicotine stained teeth only added to his charm. My dad had nothing to complain about. He married his high school sweetheart, Mabel Warren, made a fortune in business, and now in retirement, raised prized thoroughbred racehorses.
My mother, Mabel Warren could trace her roots back to the Mayflower, the Colonel loved that fact, and Mom was a proud member of the Daughters of the Revolution. Mom grew up in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, along the seacoast; it was there she met Dad. Three years younger than the Colonel, they met at a dance put on by her church when she was only a freshman in high school. Mabel was still a beautiful woman, healthy and strong. She was so proud to be the mother of the Senator from Kentucky.
Theodore Canon had been a bit of a handful for his parents. To keep him out of trouble, the family bought a can company in Portland, Maine. Dad began canning precooked meat at the suggestion of a military man who visited his office to ask if he could help Uncle Sam with the war effort. Always having a keen business sense, once the supply chain was locked, he raised prices every chance he could, factoring in renovations and new equipment. Cost-plus, the military called it, made my father rich.
A Portland attorney worked it all out so everything was basically legal. Once the factory was at its peak, Dad realizing the war was waning, sold out to Northern Can Company. When the war ended, Northern closed the factory, blaming lackluster sales. By that time, my dad was long gone and had purchased the start of what would be his ranch in Kentucky, the Bluegrass State, where
Sarah continued, “Anyway, our place is much cozier.”
I said, “That’s one of the things I love about you, you’re always right. We can’t be filmed anywhere near that place until after the election.”
“Have you been working on your stump speech?” Sarah asked, sounding tired.
“Yep, we’ve got a team of good writers working on it, so far it’s pretty good. We meet to work on it every morning. Want to hear the first line?”
Sarah said, “Sure.”
“Americans are called to freedom,” I spoke it like an orator. Punchy and tired she giggled. Then, turning to her side closing her eyes, “I love it, Jack.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I must have been exhausted because it was the first night in a long time I slept completely through the night. In the morning, my cell phone rang. I always kept it on the nightstand under my lamp beside the bed.
Still groggy, I wanted whoever was calling to know they had woken me the hell up, “Hel… lo.”
The voice on the other end had obviously been up for hours. Sounding like he’d had too much coffee, “Jack, your mother and I would like you and the girls to come down to the ranch for Thanksgiving. How about it, Son?”
My father, Theodore James Canon, nicknamed the Colonel, not because of any military service, it was a fond name his friends called him. Partly in fun, he lived in Kentucky and partly because he owned five thousand acres there. The colonel was 79 years old and had the beginnings of dimentia, though only close family knew it. He’d been bound to a wheelchair the last few years. Suffering from severe arthritis, he could stand only briefly, sometimes in stabbing pain.
Other than the chair, the Colonel looked great for a man his age. He had thick white hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, shiny blue eyes, and always a happy smile. His big worn and nicotine stained teeth only added to his charm. My dad had nothing to complain about. He married his high school sweetheart, Mabel Warren, made a fortune in business, and now in retirement, raised prized thoroughbred racehorses.
My mother, Mabel Warren could trace her roots back to the Mayflower, the Colonel loved that fact, and Mom was a proud member of the Daughters of the Revolution. Mom grew up in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, along the seacoast; it was there she met Dad. Three years younger than the Colonel, they met at a dance put on by her church when she was only a freshman in high school. Mabel was still a beautiful woman, healthy and strong. She was so proud to be the mother of the Senator from Kentucky.
Theodore Canon had been a bit of a handful for his parents. To keep him out of trouble, the family bought a can company in Portland, Maine. Dad began canning precooked meat at the suggestion of a military man who visited his office to ask if he could help Uncle Sam with the war effort. Always having a keen business sense, once the supply chain was locked, he raised prices every chance he could, factoring in renovations and new equipment. Cost-plus, the military called it, made my father rich.
A Portland attorney worked it all out so everything was basically legal. Once the factory was at its peak, Dad realizing the war was waning, sold out to Northern Can Company. When the war ended, Northern closed the factory, blaming lackluster sales. By that time, my dad was long gone and had purchased the start of what would be his ranch in Kentucky, the Bluegrass State, where
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