Twenty years later, on his sixty-third birthday, February 6, 1979, he got his wish - but I was the only driver. My brothers, wisely, chose not to come. I thought we'd have a great time, snowshoeing, swapping stories around the wood stove, but I never factored in his drinking. Saturday night, drunk, he challenged a group of reviled snowmobilers at the Deer Head Inn and barely escaped with his life. So much for our glorious weekend. After his untimely death at 73, his youngest son Graham took over the cabin. That didn't last long; directly across our road a huge new house was built, spoiling our serenity, wrecking our wilderness, and Graham was gone; now at long last, the place was mine. Like Dad, I started bringing my kids up. Would they feel the same magic Dad and I felt there years before?
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