A Life Well Loved - Blonde!

 My Dad is 87 years old now and I take him lunch almost every day. And every day he tells me the story of my birth. As soon as I walk in the door, he hugs me and then says.

"Do you know they were chopping corn when you were born. And I took time off and went to the hospital and I saw you through the window. You didn't have much hair. I stayed for a while and then went home. Your Grandma was watching the other kids.  And as soon as I walked in the door, she asked me what color your hair was. I told her blonde.

 And she looked at me and yelled "Blonde! Where did she get that hair."

I laughed and told her "I don't know, you will have to ask your daughter when she brings the baby home."

The funny thing was my dad is Mexican, and his hair is black as night and my mom being Irish had brown hair. Grandma couldn't figure out where I got blonde hair. But I didn't have blonde hair. I just didn't have enough for my dad to see it was brown. I have always had brown hair.

One more funny thing about this is he did name me after Sandra Dee who did have blonde hair. Except Mom wouldn't let him keep the D as my middle name.

He thinks that is the funniest story. Someday I might just dye my hair blonde and surprise him!

SK Virtue

01/29/2026

Snippets - Run Piggy Run

When I was about 18, I lived with my parents and a few siblings about a mile outside Park City, Montana, on a property with an old farmhouse, a bunkhouse, some sheds, and corrals. I’d graduated high school the year before and worked at a sewing shop in town. My 15-year-old younger brother, Raymond, stayed in the bunkhouse, and when he wasn’t in school, he helped my dad at a feedlot fifteen miles away. At the time, my parents decided to raise pigs, so they bought a bunch of weaner pigs and kept them in the corrals behind an old shed. Those little guys were adorable, always wrestling, fighting, and playing. One Saturday, my mom went to town with my siblings, my dad was at work, and I stayed home. My brother loved to sleep in when he didn’t have school or work, so he was still out cold in the bunkhouse. I happened to glance out the window and saw piglets running wild—they’d escaped the pen. I pounded on my brother Raymond’s door, yelling, “The pigs are out!” Then I bolted after them, chasing those wily little things around the corrals and sheds until I was winded. That’s when my brother joined in, but the piglets were like greased lightning, darting just out of reach, sending him face-first into the dirt a couple of times. We took turns chasing them for over an hour until we finally collapsed, exhausted and filthy. And wouldn’t you know it; those mischievous pigs found the hole they’d escaped from and trotted right back in. My brother looked at me and said, “Those goddamned pigs.”  I shook my head and echoed him. “Those goddamned pigs.” We both burst out laughing, then covered the hole with a board and nails, making sure we wouldn’t have to run after those little pink troublemakers again.

SK Virtue

02/01/2026