Mar 2017
Dreams
Dreams of Grandmas house
Dreams of The Pond
of Nahla the golden dog
of Mohka the black dog
of Pablo the horse
of Abraham the donkey
and ******* if I can't remember the cats name.
I do remember how I would only see it around meal time and then only briefly; descending from the attic to eat Fancy Feast.
Cutting cold hot dogs to mix in with the dog food, taking a bite or two from each dog, hot dog that is.
Stacking
Stacking
and stacking more hay.
Then, slowly, one bail, split in two, half for the *******, mixed with Alfalfa the other half for the horse.
I was, maybe (I'm a little too drunk to remember), 7 or 8, when my sister and I captured a box full of tree frogs from The Pond. Excited with our new box of living toys, we brought them back to the red house/trailer Frankenstein. Sitting outside in the sun we attempted to count them, fruitless, but convince a couple of dirt stained, sun baked, white trash kids of that.
Yelling (always yelling, never brash, rarely angry, always loving yet, always yelling) our Grandma called us in for lunch, stouffers lasagna with Truckee Sourdough Company bread greased thickly with tube garlic butter.
We ate, drank our whole milk, did our best to avoid the tantalus sin of sunscreen, and scrambled back outside, no thought or worry for our frogs.
It must have been July or August. the famed drought of the Western United States, aided by childish disregard, had slaughtered our maybe two dozen tree frogs.
I'll tell ya, I don't remember when or how Grandma (a lover of all things living, besides Bush 1 or Bush 2 perhaps) found the frogs but I do remember her often and automatic exclaim of "Son of a gun!" was replaced with the real version, replaced and amplified and aimed.
I can't remember our punishment or if we received one, but, rest assured, Joslyn and I never jammed a plastic handheld aquarium full of tree frogs ever again.
Thank Grandma Vicki for that one.
Thanks Joslyn, for reminding me of the attic cats name: Poe
Dreams of Grandmas house
Dreams of The Pond
of Nahla the golden dog
of Mohka the black dog
of Pablo the horse
of Abraham the donkey
and ******* if I can't remember the cats name.
I do remember how I would only see it around meal time and then only briefly; descending from the attic to eat Fancy Feast.
Cutting cold hot dogs to mix in with the dog food, taking a bite or two from each dog, hot dog that is.
Stacking
Stacking
and stacking more hay.
Then, slowly, one bail, split in two, half for the *******, mixed with Alfalfa the other half for the horse.
I was, maybe (I'm a little too drunk to remember), 7 or 8, when my sister and I captured a box full of tree frogs from The Pond. Excited with our new box of living toys, we brought them back to the red house/trailer Frankenstein. Sitting outside in the sun we attempted to count them, fruitless, but convince a couple of dirt stained, sun baked, white trash kids of that.
Yelling (always yelling, never brash, rarely angry, always loving yet, always yelling) our Grandma called us in for lunch, stouffers lasagna with Truckee Sourdough Company bread greased thickly with tube garlic butter.
We ate, drank our whole milk, did our best to avoid the tantalus sin of sunscreen, and scrambled back outside, no thought or worry for our frogs.
It must have been July or August. the famed drought of the Western United States, aided by childish disregard, had slaughtered our maybe two dozen tree frogs.
I'll tell ya, I don't remember when or how Grandma (a lover of all things living, besides Bush 1 or Bush 2 perhaps) found the frogs but I do remember her often and automatic exclaim of "Son of a gun!" was replaced with the real version, replaced and amplified and aimed.
I can't remember our punishment or if we received one, but, rest assured, Joslyn and I never jammed a plastic handheld aquarium full of tree frogs ever again.
Thank Grandma Vicki for that one.
Thanks Joslyn, for reminding me of the attic cats name: Poe
