A story for my cousin

My cousin's birthday is coming up, and I can't think of an appropriate gift for her. I've already given her my ear listening to her troubles, numerous shirts she's cried all over, and my heart went to her long ago, so I don't have much left. The best I could do is write her one of my dumb stories.

It's late at night and the goats are braying in the backyard. Wait a moment... goats don't bray, they bleat. Maybe it's the donkeys making all that noise. Hee hawing and shit while pretending to be goats. Never trust a donkey. They may be donkeys wearing goat's clothing.

Those donkeys are sneaky little fuckers..

But what do I know? I don't keep barnyard animals in my backyard. They would just annoy me until I started shooting at them which would nullify having them in the first place. I can just imagine the scene...dead animals all over the yard and me standing there with a gun looking somewhat dazed trying to figure out what the hell just happened and what the bloody fuck I'm going to do with these carcasses. The garbage man isn't going to haul them away and I can't eat them. Who in their right
mind would eat a donkey? A really sick twisted mother fucker, that's who.

I let these thoughts drift from my head like the forgotten piece of my barn that a donkey just hee-hawed and gleefully dropped kicked into the Nether regions of my yard. Donkeys have no regard for anything.

Jesus.

I have donkeys on my mind. I know they're evil. Apparently they can posses you and force you to write about them instead of just shooting at their annoying asses. No pun intended.


I'm trying to write a story for my baby cousin and I keep babbling about donkeys. Maybe I'm just trying to delay the fact that I have no idea where to begin and not a clue where it's going to end. That's not unusual, I never know how my stories are going to end up...they just kind of happen and end up somewhere that surprises even me.

Anyways...

It's late at night and the goats are braying....I mean bleating. That's just what goats do. They're pretty much useless unless you like goat milk and who the hell likes goat milk?

Baby Girl is lying on her bed wide awake wishing for sleep, but all the previous day's troubles are running through her head making sleep impossible. So much drama and so few hours in the day.

Staring at the ceiling, her mind is a constant whirl of activity. Sleep seems an unobtainable goal.

She spies "Dog" on her dresser. He's just an under stuffed stupid piece of fuzz and fluff with big floppy ears and an unimaginative name that a cousin gave to her. It doesn't matter. She needs someone to talk to and she was told that Dog is a good listener. He doesn't talk back, he just listens and keeps secrets very well.

Unlike donkeys. They don't listen very well and then try to kick your head across the yard like a soccer ball in some sort of perverted Mayan game.

Dog listens to her lamentations, silent as always. It probably doesn't help his vocal skills that he has no mouth. I tore it from his face when I was small. Why? I have no idea. Probably because it was there.

Baby Girl keeps whispering to Dog and slowly the sweet shroud of sleep overcomes her sneaking in like fog crossing a winter's landscape. Baby girl is fast asleep and Dog is keeping a silent vigil.

He can't help it, the poor fucker has no mouth.

Lost in the fog of forgetfulness and fantasy she dreams she's older. Not old, but older then she is now. No one is telling her what to do and she has a handsome prince by her side.

Dog frowns.

He knows that life doesn't work out the way we want it to. Sooner or later a donkey is going to come curiously clomping across the landscape to kick your dreams as hard as he can. It's inevitable.

Suddenly the scene changes and she's surrounded by 3 screaming children and she's all alone. They're all hers and her prince has disappeared. She loves them all dearly, but she wonders "Is this my life?" This is it? What happened?"

Then she sees Dog sitting forlorn and lonely on a dresser. She grabs him, curls up on the bed and once again whispers her secrets in his floppy ear. And Dog listens...

Wake up Baby Girl...it was all just a dream.

Dog listens and he speaks softly. You have to listen very close, but if you try hard enough you can hear him. Deep inside you know the right answers to every question and Dog knows that. Hold him close, talk to him, listen to your instincts and Dog. He will never lead you wrong.

He's a pretty smart little guy and he's there to protect you when I can't.

And he hates donkeys. God, does he hate donkeys.

Grandma

This is one of my not funny nor interesting posts, I'm just going to occasionally use this as a place to get things off my chest. If you want to read it, knock yourself out. If not, move on to the next post, because I'm sure I'm rambling on in it about something that makes little to no sense which more fits my writing style.

This is a confession about the worst thing I ever did.

My grandmother and I always had a very special relationship. I never understood why, but I was her favorite. The whole family knew it. She even admitted the fact to me when I was about 9 years old, but she told me not to tell my cousins. I don't know if it was because I was always around or because I was such a charming little guy. Somehow I suspect the former much more then the latter.

I was the only grandchild my grandmother made a quilt for. And a turtle. I wish I knew what happened to that turtle...it was big enough for a 2 year old to sit on. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, gave my turtle to Goodwill when I was 4 years old. It only exists in pictures and my memory now. My quilt, I still have. If I cast my eyes to the side I can see it laying on my bed.

Unfortunately I left it in the care of my mother when I left home as a young man, and she didn't treasure it near as much as I did. For years she put it at the foot of her bed and let her stupid cats sleep on it. They tore it up. I finally rescued it about 15 years ago before it was completely ruined. In a couple of days the quilt will be sent off to my niece who I know will treasure it as much as I do.

Anyways, enough about quilts. My grandmother was more like a mother to me...even as far as her beating me with a 2x4 while screaming "You're an evil, evil child." I have no idea what I did to piss her off so bad, but whatever it was I probably deserved the beating. And it wasn't that bad of a beating, I was laughing the whole time thinking how ludicrous the whole situation was. A 5 foot nothing old lady hitting a 6 foot tall 12 year old with a 2x4. And calling him "Evil."

I have so many wonderful memories of Grandma. She always stood up for me when my overprotective mother wanted to prevent me from doing something dangerous like playing baseball. Grandma never missed one of my baseball games, not a single one. She knew the names of all my teammates and wanted to hear all the stories we told on the bench. Obviously as I grew older discretion became the better part of valor and I wouldn't tell her exactly what we were talking about in the dugout.

Grandma and I also used to plant a garden every year and every summer morning it was my job to weed it with her. I hated it. But, boy did I love the fresh carrots and my never ending supply of raspberries and strawberries. I spoiled many a meal growing up because I was stuffed full of the bounty from Grandma's garden and was to full to eat dinner. And every night without fail Grandma would pull up a chair by my bed and read me a chapter out of the Bible. That got really boring about time she hit Kings.

The years went by and I grew. Grandma got old and arthritis crippled her up. It was now my turn to watch over the woman that had given me so many happy memories. She was fiercely proud and I did my best to respect that when I went to take care of her. She had a wheelchair, but she hated the damn thing. She used it as a walker rather then sit in it and have someone push her around. I like to think that she loved that I was the only one who would give her the dignity of getting around on her own without falling all over myself to keep her from doing something she wanted to do on her own.

Which brings me to the worst thing I ever did in my life...

It was a Friday evening when I stopped by and my mother and her sister asked me to sit with Grandma for a bit while they ran and did something. I figured it would be only be an hour or so, so I readily agreed. I had a date that night.

An hour later my mother and her sister were still trying to figure out just what the hell they were going to do and I angrily said "Y'all know I do have plans tonight?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I looked over at Grandma and saw the sorrow in her eyes. I don't think she was as disappointed in me as much as she was in the fact that her own body had abandon her and that her little boy had to keep an eye on her.

The last time I saw Grandma was when she was in the ICU. Others in the family had been to see her and told her how wonderful she looked. I, on the other hand, walked in and said "Grandma, you don't look so good." She smiled and said "I don't feel so good."

A couple of hours later Grandma was gone.

My only regret is her hearing me bitch about the amount of time my mom and aunt were taking. In the end I tried to give her what she treasured most...her independence.

My Brother

Heh. Just kidding, I don't have a brother.

But apparently there's one person in this world that didn't know that. I have a feeling he must of been a shut in playing with sock puppets in ways I'd just rather not even think about.

"Hello Mr. Sock. How are you?"

"Oh my! What is that you have for me?" comes back the answer in a falsetto voice.

I told you I'd rather not think about it, because everything degenerates downhill after that dialog and I want to sleep tonight without dreaming about talking, spitting, dick sock puppets. That's just wrong on so many levels.

In my hometown I was pretty well known. My picture was in the paper pretty often because of my involvement in sports and my grandfather was the minister of one of the few churches in town and I was forced to take an active part in church activities. On top of all that I'm 6'7" and I don't blend into a crowd very easily.

So one day, I went into a grocery store and bought a 18 pack of rot gut beer. Mr. Sock Puppet sells it to me even though I thought everyone in town knew I was underage. I'm ecstatic and go bumbling out of the store with my booty.

My buddies and I retreated to....oh hell, nowhere. We were proud and drank our beer in front of everyone.

But all good things must come to an end and since the last ruse went so well, we ("We" meaning my friends. I don't remember agreeing to any of this)decided it was a good idea to head back to the same store and send my dumb ass back in. I was half lit, so when presented to me as "That's the only way we're getting more beer" it even sounded like a good idea to me. I was highly gullible and stupid at 17. I grab another 18 pack and walked a little less surely up to Mr. Sock Guy's check stand. And by "A little less surely", I mean to say I wasn't walking so good. Unless you consider a healthy young man using the aisles and the opposite 50lb bag displays of dog food as pin ball bumpers as walking normally. If you do, I was golden.

Sadly, most people frown on that kind of walking unless you have some sort of disease, which unfortunately I didn't. I was listing hard to the starboard side due to the heavy burden in my right hand and that caused me to flail and use the vegetables and whatever else was handy to steady myself.

He rang me up and then asked suspiciously "Didn't you just buy a bunch of beer?"

I looked at him, the picture of underage teenage drunken innocence, and said "Nah, that must of been my brother. That dude's an alcoholic. I get this all the time."

Then he took my money and I stumbled out the door.

For a dumb assed kid I had a pretty smooth mouth on me.

And I presume that when his shift was over, he went and put socks with drawn faces on all his extremities and had a puppet show. I really don't care to hazard a guess on that last part.