Excerpt from The Making of American Aura

Chicago, May 6, 1893

“Lose your story, lose your life,” Catfish told his only son Aura.

The 12-year-old boy’s emerald eyes intensified, luminous against his olive skin and cascading hair. He stood next to his father on a balcony perched high above the White City, a magnificent mirage of neoclassical marble buildings gleaming on the foreshore of Lake Michigan’s infinite horizon. Lagoons and canals interlaced the city. Gondolas glided. Tall ships sailed. The White City scintillated. This was Chicago’s World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893.   

Aura clutched the railing to remedy his vertigo. Catfish wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders and squeezed tight. “Lose your story, lose your life,” he said again.

Aura looked to his father.

Catfish smiled as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flask. “But write your story, son”—he said as he unscrewed the top and took a swig—“but write your story and realize your life.”