If you haven’t kept that bloody razor somewhere I will be disappointed. What a story - mark Twain could have written it. That it is autobiographic takes it to another level. A cautionary tale that we learn from, even if only adjacent through reading it. I can smell the cooking and the freedom of being young when we can still learn from our mistakes (or arrogance) (same thing).
Patris, I wrote this last night. I truly have no idea what's going on here.
I don’t know who this poor bastard is but he popped into my head as I drifted off to sleep and had this to say. Who am I to refuse this man his last rights or his last confession or whatever the hell this is. I can only hope he goes to his end with a lighter heart, unless it's Trump.
I just wish I understood it better. It's just so strange to have something like that arrive and have no clue about its origins. A little creepy but I do feel sorry for him.
Thanks Patris. I am just beginning to get the hang of these things. Maybe they're essays, maybe short stories, maybe they're just chapters, I can't say but it is strange but that after the long drive to Arkansas to see my cousin's son get married, I simply couldn't wait to get these early carpenter years stories out of me. Strange.
I almost fainted, reading this autobiographical piece! And then I got all confused when I read the comments and "Some Good Times". I thought "I wrote this last night" referred to Sunday Essay #3. Which made me read everything once again. And I'm grateful for that; I figured it all out (duh! I must be a bit dense this Sunday), plus your stories certainly deserve to be read more than once. Absolutely lovely.
That was funny and I promise not to pull any more weird out of sync comments that can mess up an otherwise decent post. and thank you Jessica for the comments.
That is so true. Russell Baker was a writer I really enjoyed along with Art Buchwald. They had a column they shared, so they each published every other day. Baker wrote a really fine book, "Growing Up". He said when he was growing up families were much bigger, with 5-7 kids very common. Granted he was born in 1925, like my parents. He also said "kids were more plentiful then, a lot less precious."
Yeah, we had those things as well- great Uncle Emil pulled a pot of boiling potatoes on himself after he survived a coyote climbing in the bay window while he was sleeping in the bassinet. My grandpa Paul, at 8 years old shot the coyote as his paws we draped over the edge of the bassinet. This is the kind of crazy shit that came in the generation before, so my shenanigans were from a tamer world, as I see it.
If you haven’t kept that bloody razor somewhere I will be disappointed. What a story - mark Twain could have written it. That it is autobiographic takes it to another level. A cautionary tale that we learn from, even if only adjacent through reading it. I can smell the cooking and the freedom of being young when we can still learn from our mistakes (or arrogance) (same thing).
Patris, I wrote this last night. I truly have no idea what's going on here.
I don’t know who this poor bastard is but he popped into my head as I drifted off to sleep and had this to say. Who am I to refuse this man his last rights or his last confession or whatever the hell this is. I can only hope he goes to his end with a lighter heart, unless it's Trump.
Some Good Times
“It’s time”, said the warden
as a large key clambered about
an even larger steel ring
and then rattled around
in that loose lock worn
by centuries but kept
well lubricated.
There for a while
it felt as though time
was on my side
what with the appeals,
the stays, improbable pardons,
possible commuting sentences,
(there was talk of a mistrial)
broken up nicely by
meals, exercise, library time
and the sleep
of the nearly dead
or soon to be.
But I was wrong.
All of the above
legal argle bargle
seemed a great deal
like the kind of
deus ex machina you find
in a hurriedly completed play.
Perhaps it was
a tad underfunded.
I truly am not surprised
my drama is wrapping up
this way. It was a shit show
even during act one
when my lying
became so fluent,
so effortless, so pervasive
that only rarely
did the truth ever bite
me in the ass
and that was because
I had only a
passing acquaintance with it.
From there it was
but a short hop
to scorn for anyone
with truth on their lips.
Oh, but we let them suck
on that pacifier while we
relieved them of their candy.
We felt they had it coming,
because that kind of ignorance
always comes at a price
and we required their tuition
to be paid in full.
We considered this
time well spent even
before class was begun
(then promptly dismissed).
Crime does pay and quite well
on an hourly basis, but
unfortunately, here I am,
with my ill gotten gains
hidden god knows where,
fresh out of time.
Well I must comment the way I do talk:
This is fucking brilliant, Wes.
I just wish I understood it better. It's just so strange to have something like that arrive and have no clue about its origins. A little creepy but I do feel sorry for him.
Maybe the reason he told you.
Chills right now rereading it.
Thanks Patris. I am just beginning to get the hang of these things. Maybe they're essays, maybe short stories, maybe they're just chapters, I can't say but it is strange but that after the long drive to Arkansas to see my cousin's son get married, I simply couldn't wait to get these early carpenter years stories out of me. Strange.
Follow that spark, Wes. (As you must have back then.)Wonderful story for many reasons. Truly
A most memorable Thanksgiving! I'm glad you survived to write about it! ;-)
As a cook getting ready to prep stuffing in the morning, the idea of chestnut cornbread dressing is entrancing...
I borrowed that bit from my mom's cooking. Mom also did oyster stuffing and several times we smoked the turkeys, very moist.
Weston Parker, Genius Entrepreneur: The Early Days
What a glorious mess.
It was such a glorious mess. And that is why I say that if were do indeed learn from our mistakes then I should be a bloody genius.
I almost fainted, reading this autobiographical piece! And then I got all confused when I read the comments and "Some Good Times". I thought "I wrote this last night" referred to Sunday Essay #3. Which made me read everything once again. And I'm grateful for that; I figured it all out (duh! I must be a bit dense this Sunday), plus your stories certainly deserve to be read more than once. Absolutely lovely.
That was funny and I promise not to pull any more weird out of sync comments that can mess up an otherwise decent post. and thank you Jessica for the comments.
Funny, especially because it’s autobiographical.
That is so true. Russell Baker was a writer I really enjoyed along with Art Buchwald. They had a column they shared, so they each published every other day. Baker wrote a really fine book, "Growing Up". He said when he was growing up families were much bigger, with 5-7 kids very common. Granted he was born in 1925, like my parents. He also said "kids were more plentiful then, a lot less precious."
Yeah, we had those things as well- great Uncle Emil pulled a pot of boiling potatoes on himself after he survived a coyote climbing in the bay window while he was sleeping in the bassinet. My grandpa Paul, at 8 years old shot the coyote as his paws we draped over the edge of the bassinet. This is the kind of crazy shit that came in the generation before, so my shenanigans were from a tamer world, as I see it.