Tag: communities

Grandma’s Last Rodeo

I know, I know, it’s been a while. Good to see you again. It’s been a depressing year, but I’m back maybe not regularly. I’m working on it. What follows is another of those Girlie On the Edge six-sentence blog challenge posts. The challenge word is Rodeo.

My youngest son and I took Grandma to her last rodeo; she must have been 97 or 98.

Life had been tough, one baby had died at two weeks, her son had died young and her daughter was dying an inch at a time—so she didn’t laugh much; didn’t cry either.

You know, a rodeo’s a rodeo and she’d seen many, but then they trotted out the wild cow race.

For those of you who don’t know, a wild cow race involves organizing a few teams of racers, letting a bunch of cows loose, and then chasing them down with saddles and bridles, saddling them, bridling them, and riding them (one team member) back to the starting point.

You can imagine the potential for mayhem with a bunch of old range cows—the stubborn refusal to be caught, the foot-setting refusal to lead, the running up and down the arena, the bucking, the spills, and so on.

Half-way through the race, I looked over at Grandma, a woman I hadn’t seen laugh in years, and tears were running down her cheeks, she was holding her sides, laughing like it was the last day of her life and she was going to get the most out of it.

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Categories: Families Fiction

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No Party for Me

I must have been five, maybe six. My classmate had a Valentine’s Day party. She distributed invitations at school and my parents decided I should go. I had spent almost no time with children before starting kindergarten. Then I spent the year bringing home all the childhood diseases—measles, mumps, chicken pox, measles, and finally, bronchial pneumonia. I needed socialization. Dad took me to the house, but the girl’s parents wouldn’t let me in. I don’t remember my rejection, but my dad never forgot. I only know because I asked Mom years later why Dad so hated that family.

Categories: Communities

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Five Thirty-Two

Uncle George had had a few beers that night. Quite a few actually. Somehow, the topic of duck hunting came up and my son’s ears perked. He was ten or eleven at the time. He asked a bunch of questions and, before you know it, George had invited him on a duck hunt the next day.

“Now, you have to get up really early to hunt ducks,” George told him. “It’s not like pheasants that you can hunt in the afternoon. So I’ll meet you here at the bottom of the stairs at five thirty-two tomorrow morning. Do you think you can make it?”

Sean nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. I can.” My boy’s eyes shone. He’d never before been invited to hunt with the men.

“Well, you’d better turn in,” George suggested. “Five thirty-two comes pretty early.”

Sean agreed and disappeared to one of the bedrooms. I don’t know if he slept that night. I know he had no alarm clock, but at five thirty-two he was sitting on the bottom step. Aunt Walleen nearly stumbled on him on the way to the bathroom that morning.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Uncle George said he’d take me duck hunting at five thirty-two.”

I wasn’t there, but I can imagine that Walleen grinned a wicked grin as she returned to the bedroom. She’d have shaken George’s shoulder none too gently.

“What? What’s the matter? Is the house on fire?”

“No fire, George, but you promised a kid you’d take him hunting.”

George rolled over. “Okay. Okay. I’ll take him hunting this afternoon.”

“He’s waiting on the steps, George. You told him you would take the dog and go duck hunting at five thirty-two this morning.”

“But I don’t have a duck dog.”

“Don’t matter, George.”

“Five thirty-two,” he mumbled. “Why would I say such a thing?”

“You were drunk, George.”

“Had to be.”

“Well, he’s waiting and you’d better pry that old body of yours out of this bed and take that boy hunting.”

So Uncle George pried his eyes open and lifted himself out of his nice, warm, comfortable bed and braved the ice on the lake to take my boy duck hunting. They did not bag a single duck. I’m not sure they even saw one.

But an old guy kept his word to a young one, even though he was a little late.

And that means something.

Categories: Communities Families Non-fiction

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