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Monday, September 14, 2009 • • Death
An early fall breeze slipped beneath the trees, sweeping brittle, browned leaves in tiny swirls before it. The leaves scratched their protest on the sidewalk before disappearing into piles pressed up against the chapel where Jesse James' stepfather preached his sermons. The chapel's stone walls dammed the wind's efforts to create a river with leaves, so I shifted my gaze to the right.
I was stalling, of course, hoping I could will away a goodbye waiting inside the home on the grounds of this tiny church camp in Holt, Missouri. It was the summer of '76, the start of my final year of college.