I never really understood my father. Yes, his use of the word “no” was pretty straightforward. I could ignore it at my peril. Other things he said to me, however, were open to interpretation. He was a country boy who expressed himself in ways that didn’t really have any context for me.
Hog heaven, for example, was how he described the place where I preferred to spend most of my youth: stretched out on the couch with the drapes closed and the swamp cooler on high, watching Tarzan movies on television, with a platter of jam sandwiches and a big glass of milk within easy reach. “Aren’t you in hog heaven,” he’d say coming inside after working in the blazing sun.
