(March 16, 2018)
he’d talk-quest of us three boys
at supper table.*
Washington, sured Glenn: I, Maine.
Wrong, he’d gloat: Lake of The Woods!
- (An elementary school drop-out who put money on his widowed mom’s table every day – and bitterly counted the 15 cents a week he’d get back – he worked in fields from Montana through The Dakotas before he could say those long pants fit, Mom said he was treated like a kingless Prince by his two surviving sisters (whom his and younger brother’s toil got them schooled and wedded so they were not menials and cooks and waitresses like their mom). Mom, much later, recounted her first trip to Osseo, Minnesota after they were married in 1945. “I swear they would have wiped his ass if he so much as lifted one leg off the seat,” she’d laugh. He couldn’t do a thing without one of them, his mother included, wanting to ‘do’ for him.” Sounds like your mom and grandpa, I smirked. She just looked at me and shrugged: “point.” I always fetch my own beer. And I bought her a color teevee with a cable contract and one of them new-fangled “slider” thingees that let dad run through the channels like a kid whacking picket fenceposts with a willow switch he probably soon would feel later that afternoon. Dad though it an extravagance: he had a black-n-white set with excellent picture and a “channel changer” already, he’d smile crookedly…because he knew for whom the gift was intended as well.)