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Worse yet, my whole moral fiber would be summarized by one infamous name. "Okay, Patty Simcox, you just give up on your marriage. It's not like you promised to stay together for better or for worse." But, my mother travel surprised me. I had never really understood who my mother was because we were from entirely different worlds. She was the product of a travel close-knit farming community that prided travel itself on stoicism and frugality. The town, composed of three or four Norwegian clans, typified homogeneousness. The close interbreeding had produced crops of thin-lipped sullen offspring, who were predisposed to coping with the sub-arctic temperatures of the region but not emotions. Feelings were considered frivolous and self-indulgent. Those who could not handle the weather or put a cap on their passions (more than likely the full-lipped ones) drank themselves to death in Charlie's bar downtown. I expected to be harshly judged and instead found my mother remarkably insightful. She stretched out on the floor beside me one night after a particularly nasty crying jag.
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