“More than two-thirds (or if you ask him, more than .666666) of his life is over, and he can’t make himself happy.”
2002 to 2007 | Colorado | By STEF WILLEN

“I watched closely as he stood over the sink, rinsing his hands, breathing hard, his stomach constricting with each labored breath.”
Spring 2006 | Bay Village, Ohio | By MARGARET HEPP

“I so very much wanted to be a hot pilot in my father’s eyes, but it had been too long since I’d flown. My old sure-handed precision was shot, my control sloppy. I don’t think he thought a thing of it. I don’t believe that it would have occurred to him that a woman could do any better.” | When Sue-Ellen’s father took control of the aircraft, it would be his last time.
1945 to 2003 | Illinois | By SUE-ELLEN DAVISON

“On our way to the second driveway, I glanced over at him. His face was illuminated by the console lights. His mustache was perched above his thin upper lip. His dry, callused hands held the steering wheel. Hands that knew nothing but work.” | The work was quiet and methodical, but Corey learned something about his father, and himself, that day.
February 1992 | South Strafford, Vermont | By COREY COOK

“While many 7-year-olds are already die-hard baseball fans or soccerheads, Evan’s never shown an interest in organized sports. When he sat down with me to watch two minutes of the Super Bowl last January, it was difficult to explain how a game with so many dull pauses made for exciting television.” | When American Idol comes on, however, Evan is transfixed.
2007 | New Jersey | By JOEL SCHWARTZBERG

“And there we crouched on the floor, taking turns holding the aerial, moving our bodies in the exact positions that affected positive reception. And we listened to football from Baton Rouge while my dad puffed on his Viceroys, his face glowing like the embers to his cigarette, as his beloved LSU Tigers came in like they had eyes.” | The evening was so inconsequential, but Gregg will never forget.
1970 | Seattle, Washington | By GREGG KALINA

“The night before our flight, he says we can’t go, and I wait for him to decide that he can do it: turn with me toward the edges of what is dark and hidden. The past is holding him back, pushing him forward. And we go.” | When they reach the grounds they hear a sound, impossible and yet unmistakable, Elizabeth remembers, like the cry of 10,000 voices.
1982 | Germany | By ELIZABETH ROSNER

“He contracted the infection from an unclean IV needle inserted by an ungloved ambulance medic. During the week before surgery, the infection mimicked stroke symptoms. My father could not read a newspaper or absorb words read to him, could not walk steadily, sometimes could not control his bladder. What he could do was cry.” | Kira sat with him, day after day, waiting.
1991 | Cleveland, Ohio | By KIRA FREED

Common Ties will begin publishing audio versions of stories in August 2007. The recordings will appear along with the text and photos.

“That winter, between the glorious autumn moving in and my mother’s springtime death, was full of anxiety and fear for my little sister and me. We were in a strange new house. Our mother was fading away with a disease we couldn’t understand. And it sounded like gunshots were going off outside our house.” | The popping, Lauren’s father assured her, was just the ice hardening.
1990 to present | Lake Linganore, Maryland | By LAUREN HUDGINS