only man in America who does neither, or there are a lot of people out there who don’t have a clue who their father really is.
Do my kids have a clue who I really am? I’m not even sure I do. I used to know. I used to work all the time. I guess my kids knew I worked all the time, so maybe they did know all there really was to know about me. What is there to know about a person anyway? What they desire? What they enjoy? I enjoyed success. I desire more success. Yes, that’s probably evident. They probably do know me.
Fishing and golf. Well, with fishing, once you have your equipment, it’s free. Golf, on the other hand, continues to waste your money. I can’t think of why wasting money would be fun. Between the two, I’d have to go with fishing. Though, with catch and release, what exactly is the point? How exactly is that productive? If you actually kept the fish you caught, well, then, over time you could recover the cost of your fishing equipment and actually come out ahead.
I keep flipping through the yellow pages. Garden, probably not. Golf, went over that. Gymnastics, God, no. Horse-back Riding, no. Ice Hockey, too old. Investment Advisers. I ache. Karaoke, no. Kayaks, no. Libraries, already doing that. Lingerie, hee hee. Massage, hey, there’s Jade’s ad. Meditation, don’t think so. Motorcycle, worthless suicide toys. Music, Music Instruction listed alphabetically according to the instructor’s name. Guitar, guitar (different instructor), piano, flute, bagpipes—bagpipes! Now that’s interesting. I pick up the phone.
Pearl on Life
(May 29)
My back and forearms ache from putting in all those strawberries, but I don’t have time to indulge in the pain. I walk to my modest orchard to check on things. My honeybees are active; it appears they’re pollinating clover today. I talk to them, asking them how they’re doing and thanking them for all their hard work and all the ways they make my farm a nicer place. They are busy little OB-GYNs doing in vitro fertilization everywhere.
I push my little mower through the first couple rows of trees, having figured out that if I mow two rows of the orchard every day, the grass never gets long enough to be difficult to mow, and by breaking up the task, it’s never a large job.
I survey my trees for pests, but find none. I do find birds, and thank them for eating the bugs in my orchard. I carefully examine a few more trees, and when I see the trees have begun to set fruit, I feel the same anticipation I used to feel as a child.
On the walk back to the house, I hear a rattle. I take out my Ruger and stop in my tracks. I can’t see the snake through the grass, but I listen carefully, then aim and fire at what I hope is the source of the sound. The rattling stops. I wish I had a rifle so I could use the barrel for a stick. I slowly take a few steps forward and that’s when I see it. I blow its head off just to be sure it’s dead. Then I pick it up and carry it back home. What a beauty. At home, I skin it, stretch the skin out on the side of the barn, and tack it up to dry. I figure if I present Wallace, the cobbler, with a lot of snake skins, maybe he’ll trade me for some red cowboy boots.
Up on the hill, I see Dean burning a chunk of old carpet in his burn barrel. Amazingly, the breeze is blowing it west. I could have sworn he only burned on days when the wind blew the smell of burning plastic right into my house.
Beatrice walks by when I’m almost done. “God, Pearl, do you have to shoot everything? What did this one ever do to you? ”
“We can eat it,” I suggest.
“No. No more snake. My life is too short to eat any more snake. My meals are numbered and I’m not wasting any of them on snake. No more taking snake casseroles to church potlucks either. I think that’s poor taste.”
“Be a shame to waste it.”
“Well, then, stop killing them.”
“Okay,” I say in an attempt to save our friendship, but what I really mean is that I’ll skin
Do my kids have a clue who I really am? I’m not even sure I do. I used to know. I used to work all the time. I guess my kids knew I worked all the time, so maybe they did know all there really was to know about me. What is there to know about a person anyway? What they desire? What they enjoy? I enjoyed success. I desire more success. Yes, that’s probably evident. They probably do know me.
Fishing and golf. Well, with fishing, once you have your equipment, it’s free. Golf, on the other hand, continues to waste your money. I can’t think of why wasting money would be fun. Between the two, I’d have to go with fishing. Though, with catch and release, what exactly is the point? How exactly is that productive? If you actually kept the fish you caught, well, then, over time you could recover the cost of your fishing equipment and actually come out ahead.
I keep flipping through the yellow pages. Garden, probably not. Golf, went over that. Gymnastics, God, no. Horse-back Riding, no. Ice Hockey, too old. Investment Advisers. I ache. Karaoke, no. Kayaks, no. Libraries, already doing that. Lingerie, hee hee. Massage, hey, there’s Jade’s ad. Meditation, don’t think so. Motorcycle, worthless suicide toys. Music, Music Instruction listed alphabetically according to the instructor’s name. Guitar, guitar (different instructor), piano, flute, bagpipes—bagpipes! Now that’s interesting. I pick up the phone.
Pearl on Life
(May 29)
My back and forearms ache from putting in all those strawberries, but I don’t have time to indulge in the pain. I walk to my modest orchard to check on things. My honeybees are active; it appears they’re pollinating clover today. I talk to them, asking them how they’re doing and thanking them for all their hard work and all the ways they make my farm a nicer place. They are busy little OB-GYNs doing in vitro fertilization everywhere.
I push my little mower through the first couple rows of trees, having figured out that if I mow two rows of the orchard every day, the grass never gets long enough to be difficult to mow, and by breaking up the task, it’s never a large job.
I survey my trees for pests, but find none. I do find birds, and thank them for eating the bugs in my orchard. I carefully examine a few more trees, and when I see the trees have begun to set fruit, I feel the same anticipation I used to feel as a child.
On the walk back to the house, I hear a rattle. I take out my Ruger and stop in my tracks. I can’t see the snake through the grass, but I listen carefully, then aim and fire at what I hope is the source of the sound. The rattling stops. I wish I had a rifle so I could use the barrel for a stick. I slowly take a few steps forward and that’s when I see it. I blow its head off just to be sure it’s dead. Then I pick it up and carry it back home. What a beauty. At home, I skin it, stretch the skin out on the side of the barn, and tack it up to dry. I figure if I present Wallace, the cobbler, with a lot of snake skins, maybe he’ll trade me for some red cowboy boots.
Up on the hill, I see Dean burning a chunk of old carpet in his burn barrel. Amazingly, the breeze is blowing it west. I could have sworn he only burned on days when the wind blew the smell of burning plastic right into my house.
Beatrice walks by when I’m almost done. “God, Pearl, do you have to shoot everything? What did this one ever do to you? ”
“We can eat it,” I suggest.
“No. No more snake. My life is too short to eat any more snake. My meals are numbered and I’m not wasting any of them on snake. No more taking snake casseroles to church potlucks either. I think that’s poor taste.”
“Be a shame to waste it.”
“Well, then, stop killing them.”
“Okay,” I say in an attempt to save our friendship, but what I really mean is that I’ll skin
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