Book Report : ' Out Dad '

“Dad, can I go over to Ambers’ house to study tomorrow?” Our daughter Catherine asked the question, from about halfway up the stairs. Only her face could be seen as she peered at my husband hopefully, over the banister. I looked over at my husband, knowing what he would say, before he spoke. “Ask your mom.” My husband said to her, while glancing at me, expectantly. I smiled at him, knowing why he was telling her to ask me. He had worked all week, making the long drive from our home in Ashland to his office in Richmond and was hoping I would drive her to her friend’s house, so he could relax at home. My daughters’ hopeful gaze turned toward me, as well. “Madre?” She didn’t bother repeating the question. I hid the little sting of pain, that I always felt when she called me that, behind a smile. “What time are you supposed to be there, and do I need to bring you over and pick you up as well?” She nodded as she answered me. “Yeah, her mom can’t do it today, but I told her I would help her with her math.” Catherine had always made high marks in her school studies; it was something I was exceedingly proud of. “Yes, I’ll drive you, but make sure your phone is fully charged.” I have always been protective of the kids, and it was a long standing rule that they didn’t leave the house without a way to contact me. “I will.” She called out as she went the rest of the way up the stairs, disappearing from my view.

In the short story, A Fathers Story by Andre Debus, a man named Luke Ripley is challenged by a decision that effects himself, the people he loves, and his faith. The author, Dubus, uses what a man named Paul Fussell describes as "the literary-artistic-historical sensibility"

She flung the bathroom door open and felt her throat tighten at the scene. Her loving boyfriend was laying in the bathtub clearly dead with the water overflowing over the sides of the tub. His eyes were glazed over, looking almost made out of glass, and his skin had started to become discolored. Letting out a guttural scream, she ran to the side of the tub and tried to lift him out. However, she knew it was too late and he was too heavy for her to lift. She sunk to the wet floor with tears falling from her eyes as she turned off

Hang up the baseball glove and put away the bedtime stories. No need to take

William watched Tabitha climb out of the hot tub. He took in a long, full look at her ass. She stood at the edge of the hot tub, wringing water from her ponytail. Droplets of water trickled down over Tabitha’s chest and stomach. William watched Tabitha’s body steam in the frigid air, the night’s icy fingers tickled her body, tightening her flesh and firming her nipples. She walked around the side of the hot tub and sat down next to William, dipping her feet into the water. William felt the flesh of her thigh rub against his shoulder.

The cleanest, good smelling, shiney bathroom he had ever been in. The walls were white like pearls, the floor looked like diamonds, and the appliances look like quartz. Overwhelmed with excitement, Rainsford removed all his clothes and hopped into the shower. He had been in the heavenly shower for half an hour, enjoying the water, his cleansing, and most of all: the smell. He hadn’t had any sort of bath since two days before his departure to the island. Only all of this had ended shortly. Rainsford had opened the curtains to the shower and there stood Ivan. He had blood coming from his mouth, and the wound to where the knife was flung into. He had been breathing most hoarse and hard. Rainsford had whispered, “Ivan?!” Knowing what he was here for, he could not go anywhere, seeing that Ivan as blocking the door and the window was too high up for him to jump. Rainsford just sat there, watching Ivan stand there with his knife in hand. Rainsford braced for what was coming. Before Ivan slowly walked to the chateau, he had lost a terrible amount of blood and was bleeding out at an incredibly fast speed. The floors were covered in almost blackened blood.

“I intend to,” I said over my shoulder as I hurried out the door and across the street. I instructed Benét to draw me a hot bath and then anxiously paced the floor until she had the tub half-filled with hot water. I stepped into the bath and then slid beneath the water. It was so hot it nearly scalded my body. After a moment, I spread my legs and let the hot water touch my private place- slipped my fingers in and let the water deeper inside me- it felt deliciously sinful. I wanted to be fresh and clean for my night with Boudreaux. I bit my lip in anticipation and tasted blood… hurry, hurry

‘Just two steps away,’ laughed Edna. ‘in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it’s for rent. I’m tired of looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine anyway—like home. It’s too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired of bothering with them.’

“Aw thanks dad, I really appreciate it, but in order to go to school I have to be clothed...” Riley awkwardly, but politely cajoled. Her dad exited her colorful room without unwillingness, so she wouldn’t start the morning off with an attitude like her identical twin brother, like Casey did when their dad wished him a happy birthday in his filthy room “to interrupt his sleep” as Casey would call it when he shouted at his dad. Like every morning, Riley gazed into the round mirror

Only the dogs had heard. They lifted their heads toward her from their sleeping in the dust, and then stretched out their chins and settled asleep again. Elisa turned and ran hurriedly into the house”. The repairman had just left and she was whispering sweet nothings into the air and as she heard her whisper she was startled and ran inside to clean herself of her sinful borderline adulterous actions she took in pursuing the repairman. Elisa cleans herself with a pumice rock which was common for rural people of the time, but the reason she washes herself so roughly is due to the fact that she feels unclean,”In the bathroom she tore off her soiled clothes and flung them into the corner.

In chapter 1 of part 1, we are introduced to our main characters Sammy Klayman and Josef Klaver. The chapter starts off with Sam reminiscing about his career and early life. Joseph comes in to the story when Sam’s mom makes him share his bed. Josef reveals that he is an artist and asks Sam for help to get a job at the Eagle. The two slowly start talking and Josef reveals that his family didn’t make it out of Prague.

Thank you for everything you do for us. I know you don’t work at that job but you still help. You sacrafice your time and sleep to do what you do. Thank you for being part of the firemen and for making your lives safer every day.

Early this morning, I woke up in my beautiful bedchamber well-rested and ready to begin my day. Last night I had the strangest dream. My best friend, Dymas, was in it and she told me that I should wash my family’s soiled clothing today. It would my bring parents so much joy, and I would never wish to disappoint them. I am a Phaeacian princess for goodness sake, I should always be looking my best and not in soiled linens! So, I rose at dawn, ready for my trip to the river. My caring father lent me a beautiful mule cart to take down to the river pools. Which was where I began washing all of our dirty clothes. Of course I had to travel with my maids, for company and safety. We packed all of the soiled linen, along with olive oil for bathing, a snack, and some wine for a treat afterwards.

When it comes to moral and legal problems, what is right or wrong usually gets clouded by details. The gray matter comes to play in deciding who was right or wrong in the short stories “A Father’s Story” and “Uncle”. In “A Father’s Story’, Luke Ripley was in the right for covering up his daughter’s crimes. Who wouldn’t do anything to keep their child safe no matter their age? The length a person is willing to go to keep their child safe in unmeasurable. Whereas in “Uncle” the niece is completely in the wrong. Despite our brains not reaching full maturity until the age of twenty-five, this middle-school-aged should know it is wrong to attack someone who did nothing to her with large gardening tool, continue to torture him after initially

"A conversation With my Father" is a story written by Grace Paley. this short story is about a discussion between the narrator and her sick, eighty-six-year-old father. Throughout this whole entire story, there is evidence given to the reader that this short story is about story-telling. The reader can tell that this is a story about storytelling because in the conversation between the narrator and her father, they are constantly talking about how a story should be written. "A conversation With my Father" is a story about storytelling.