A Cracking Good Time

Posted by Pinhole at 9/3/2010 10:36 AM
Categories: Humor, Writing, Family, Philosophy, Thoughts
Tags: Writing Tribute Humor Family
Grandpa didn’t cut the heads off of the chickens.

He would wring their neck, perform a smooth snapping motion and a surprised bundle of feathers with feet was sent bouncing across the barnyard.  I still don’t know what these beasts had done to aggravate him to such a degree, but I vowed, at the age of four that if my Grandfather started cracking his knuckles, and darting his eyes in my direction, I’d soon be as far away as possible.  When he had the dog put down the line between fear and respect began to noticeably blur.

This kind of introduction to death inspires a philosophical bent in a young boy.  Play and self-analysis become important parts of the day.  I’d be toying with my hamburger at lunch and find myself staring out the kitchen window at a pasture full of cows.  Literally, as was so lyrically captured in The Lion King, the circle of beef.

”Don’t play with your food, Pinhole,” Grandma cautioned.

Responding was a waste of time.  Grandpa and Grandma employed a monk-like economy of speech.  If a nod or gesture got the point across their lips never moved.  An evening of eye rolling, eyebrow raising and wrist whips was pretty entertaining, but if one of them really got angry you could turn off the television.  Ed Sullivan had nothing to compete with the act in the living room.

So I pretended to eat and began watching a fly on the screen door.  The fly seemed carefree and answerable to no one, though a little anxious.  No one to tell it when to go to bed, no one to tell it when to get up, no one to tell it not to play with its food…food…then I remembered the primary staple of the fly’s diet and began to reconsider how fortunate I was to have a hamburger in front of me.

But as the fly found other things to do, so did my sense of gratitude.  Before long my fork was handle deep in a stack of wax beans, one fourth of a corral keeping my potatoes from stampeding.  As a second warning Grandma cleared her throat just as I heard the back door squeal on its hinges.

Sitting up as straight as I could manage, my eyes almost out of my head, I glanced at my Grandmother, “Did you hear knuckles popping?”








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