Im piling my books on top of the garbage can lid at the bottom of the stairs by the south entrance and my phone is propped up to my ear with my shoulder. On the other end, my father sits. Probably in the brown chair. Probably in levis shrink to fits with one leg stretched taut by his swollen calf, a flannel shirt with 2 pockets, not 1, never 1. The left shirt pocket contains his wire test in it's case, 2 pencils, One black, one red, a small spiral bound notebook and a roll of electrical tape. His right shirt pocket contains his glasses in their case and a pen along with various receipts and drawings. "How are you, poppa?"
"Sick."
"What kind of sick?"
"Whelp, gotta cold 'tsbeen going around the mill."
"Kissin' millwrights again, huh?"
"yeah."
"That'll do it."
"'Think I'm sick now, you should've seen how sick I got when I had to kiss 'em!"
"you don't have time for catching colds."
"Exactly. I need this time for catching fish. You know, I think the dog thinks she's taking me fishing when we go. -away from the phone- dont you, dog? eh? You think you're in charge you mangey mutt? Ah ha. So how're you?"
"Are you talking to me or your dog?"
"You! The dog can't answer questions!"
Posted by Sonya at March 6, 2003 10:34 AMI wish my family was 1/3 as interesting as your's sounds -- I'd probably want to talk to them more often.
Posted by: THE COMTE at March 6, 2003 01:26 PMDogs can so answer questions, you just gotta ask the right ones.
"What's on top of a house?"
"How does sandpaper feel?"
"Who was the greatest slugger of all time?"