North of Boston
THEY aint much happened sence the last riting. Tother Sunday morning I lay in my humble cot, fixed up with built in book cases and radio, watching the sun come over the mountings and making my mind up to a day of rest, church going, color pitcher taking and contemplashun when the phone rings and the pastor what supplies us allows his go cart is busted and will I get him.
It is six clapboards below zero. I get him, hear him do his stuff, take the offering, wait whilst he polishes off the Sunday Scule and lug him back. That's sixty miles in awl. Them lovely venison chops, whittled offen a French speaking deer up in Quebec, is cold when I do get home.
My Dreadnaught looks out the window and yelps "Look at the fox!" Being an extra fine shot X grab a rifle and just wun catridge and say "Here's your neckpiece honey—how you want it made up?" and unlatch. Said fox snaps on the dubble ignition, pulls her back into high and goes elsewhere. My Dreadnaught spoke at length on the topic "Seventy-five guns in the house and where is my neck piece?"
Phone rings and the State Perlice have a driving to endanger deal to sort over, which was did.
Feller shows and wants sum advice about sculing under the G I Bill.
Fire siren squawks and there is a house going up. Bum chimney.
When I do get home it is after dark. Comb the ice out of my hair and beat it offen my jacket. Winter fire fighting aint no joke. The Dreadnaught has a big fire in the liberry and hot tea and toast. The family lap dog which weighs seventy pounds comes over and puts his hed in my lap and remarks way back in his throat he is glad the old man is home and did I see any nice looking numbers his size whilst treading around.
The next time ennywun asts me how we manage to idle away them long lonely winter days up this way I dunno but what I shall part his hair with a dubble bitted axe for him. Sum of you fellers cum up here and settle down and you will know what I mean.
