Monday, September 28, 2009

Memoir in Progress #1

In the hills above the town, which sat near the ocean, and home to a large university, there were gardens where deer wandered freely. Among the gardens were many cats, skunks and possums along with all manner of other small furry creatures.

The cats moved like shadows that

wandered freely between the homes and made note of goings on that others did not observe.

was in this world that the fox ruled his domain and though the other creatures gave him wide berth, he gave them no trouble for he had more important matters of concern.

The Siamese cats that lived next door to each other three in a row eventually, would gather to

trade stories about their respective domiciles and laconically recount the foibles and

idiosyncrasies of those who lived there and fed them.

They would gather at the gold fish pond that was in one of the larger gardens and gaze at the lily

pads and dragon flies that hovered there on a summer afternoon, there they would recount

which lonely widow was drinking herself into a fog nightly and which professor known for

brilliant rhetoric all but beat his children into submission, demanding perfect grades without


He didn't know how he remembered but he did that he had waded in a tide pool near rocky

beaches and taken a few small steps and fell face first into the cold sea water and cried his heart

out with shock and fear. He did not have far to fall for he was not yet three but the father swept

him up into his arms and took his wet shirt off and gave him his own striped blue and white tee

shirt to wear and he was happy and smiled again. This was the time for him to bask in the sacred

field of affection and patience that would carry him far into times of unexpected trials.

Not long after this time they were living in a small apartment near the university on whose lawns

and glades he played like they were his own. The sister wore glasses, long braids and braces on

her teeth, voraciously consuming one book after another and his head was filled with story book

dreams and music.

He loved little more than to play with his wooden train set and wind up the Victrola phonograph

the father gave to him to play one little record after the next, prancing alone, his head filled with

Skip to My Lu, Lavender Blue, Hey dilly dilly and Old Mac Donald, Three Blind Mice and The Big

Rock Candy Mountain.

How was he to know then that the ominous mountain made of candy was but a lure for little boys

like him to be taken by vagrant men to the hobo camps and there to be their slaves for begging,

cooking and whatever those men desired?

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