Dad used to sing almost constantly. Not that he was a particularly good singer—his voice was ragged from cigarettes and whisky, and no matter the song he affected a sort of brogue, despite the fact that Fort Wayne was the closest he’d ever gotten to Ireland. After a long day of work at the hospital, he’d go downstairs to his workbench, mess around with these model planes he was always building, singing all the while. I could feel the vibrations through the kitchen floor.
Booth: Vol. 4
, Article 1.
Available at: http://digitalcommons.butler.edu/booth/vol4/iss6/1