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Thursday, August 08, 2013

 
I must have wasted two days, off and on, wondering what ever happened to old man Hunter Hawkins, “Hawk” we all called him. He lived in just such a cabin within twenty feet of the Eel River in southern Indiana. Most folks were afraid of him, but I found his nasty openness refreshing. Now and again I’d show up about daylight, and we’d either go fishing or sit out back. He’d talk. I’d listen.

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