Childhood
I'm still superstitious about frogs. If you catch enough and raise them right, they'll escape and grow big in your garden, and even if you don't see them more than once a year or two ("WOW that was a whopping big frog!" you'll say) they are there. I'm superstitious about frogs. Frogs mean good luck.
We built frog rivers and frog huts and places for those frogs to lounge in the sun, drink, swim, crawl underneath green branches, a universe in our sandbox. We kept them at night in large round tubs (with water and a rock and nice stuff! We put another tub on top, and a rock on that, or they would slip out through the cracks, we discovered right away!
My Papa raised us right.
He took us horseback riding but once. Because it was an old, worn down horse tethered to walk in a circle, and he did not think the horse was happy in the sun. He got a bad feeling about the man, and was glad when that horse ride went out of business. "I know a man has to make a living, but it wannt right for that horse."
Not that my father is any softie about animals. He downright hates chickens, apparently they plagued his childhood. Mean, territorial chickens that were so dumb they'd fight to the death over this piece of corn, when that piece of corn is a step away. Or drown drinking, because they all wanted to drink dripping water and the 'winner' kept his head back, hoggishly, and drowned. (My father has known amazingly rude chickens.) No indeed, no softie; my father is very pragmatic. When it comes to eating meat, if you look the fellow in the eye every day of his life, when it's dinner time, that's that and there ain't no use being sorry. [1]
Next week, I might write about:
THE BIGGEST SANDBOX ON THE BLOCK!
Or, ROLLER SKATES ON THE WORLD'S TOUGHEST HILL!
Or, COMIC BOOKS AT GRAMPA'S: THE GARAGE OF DELIGHT
Or, BROWSING FOR BERRIES & FRUIT IN GRAMMA'S GARDEN
Or, THE TIME GRAMPA YELLED AT US FOR BEING TOO LOUD!!!
Or even, THE MYSTERIOUS SECRET HIDDEN HIDEOUT PLACE.
Can you tell I had an enchanted childhood? Three months of the year, summers so perfect, you could eat them all winter long.
[1] My mom really went berserk over us saying ain't. That was not allowed, not even as a joke. Once we were in her care, during the school year, our grammar was impeccable. Mom was a grammar nazi, and thankfully so! Mom raised us right, too.
We built frog rivers and frog huts and places for those frogs to lounge in the sun, drink, swim, crawl underneath green branches, a universe in our sandbox. We kept them at night in large round tubs (with water and a rock and nice stuff! We put another tub on top, and a rock on that, or they would slip out through the cracks, we discovered right away!
My Papa raised us right.
He took us horseback riding but once. Because it was an old, worn down horse tethered to walk in a circle, and he did not think the horse was happy in the sun. He got a bad feeling about the man, and was glad when that horse ride went out of business. "I know a man has to make a living, but it wannt right for that horse."
Not that my father is any softie about animals. He downright hates chickens, apparently they plagued his childhood. Mean, territorial chickens that were so dumb they'd fight to the death over this piece of corn, when that piece of corn is a step away. Or drown drinking, because they all wanted to drink dripping water and the 'winner' kept his head back, hoggishly, and drowned. (My father has known amazingly rude chickens.) No indeed, no softie; my father is very pragmatic. When it comes to eating meat, if you look the fellow in the eye every day of his life, when it's dinner time, that's that and there ain't no use being sorry. [1]
Next week, I might write about:
THE BIGGEST SANDBOX ON THE BLOCK!
Or, ROLLER SKATES ON THE WORLD'S TOUGHEST HILL!
Or, COMIC BOOKS AT GRAMPA'S: THE GARAGE OF DELIGHT
Or, BROWSING FOR BERRIES & FRUIT IN GRAMMA'S GARDEN
Or, THE TIME GRAMPA YELLED AT US FOR BEING TOO LOUD!!!
Or even, THE MYSTERIOUS SECRET HIDDEN HIDEOUT PLACE.
Can you tell I had an enchanted childhood? Three months of the year, summers so perfect, you could eat them all winter long.
[1] My mom really went berserk over us saying ain't. That was not allowed, not even as a joke. Once we were in her care, during the school year, our grammar was impeccable. Mom was a grammar nazi, and thankfully so! Mom raised us right, too.