At Least They're Committed

“Awesome” time, as Dad would quip. One-hundred-plus degrees, sitting in the shade in the front and back yards, talk of Steve McQueen, Audie Murphy, “that God-damn” Duvall, buzz cuts, shooting archery until Edisonsblackdahlia’s fingers ripped open, lamenting that I suffered nary a bruise, homemade soup, teasing, Three Dog Night, speed walking at the mall, and my dad’s stories of his childhood and family history. “There was the story about the fox and the stork,” he began. “The fox invited the stork to lunch, but the fox served soup in a bowl so the stork couldn’t eat it. The stork then invited the fox to lunch, but the stork served soup in a tall, slender glass and the fox couldn’t eat it.” We paused, leaning forward as he came to the moral. Finally he said, “I don’t what the hell that was about. That’s all I remember. Maybe, if your friends screw you over, screw them back.” And we tipped back our heads and laughed and it was definitely a highlight of my lovely weekend in hiding.