r.kv.r.y. quaterly literary journal
fiction by Geordie de Boer
fall '08 winter '09
Different Shades of Yeller
Mother’s Tragic Calzone
Following Old Yeller’s funeral, the family had a wake. The skies poured and a
heavy mist rose off the musty ground. It didn’t seem like a day for drinking coldbeer,
but we did anyway. After all, Old Yeller was Irish, we were Yellers, and wakes had
coldbeer. I’d forgotten about his being Irish until Mother said over and over at the
wake, “Ah, the poor pathetic Irishman.” I knew he was pathetic, or at least I’d
always considered him so, but I’d forgotten he was Irish.
Later, well after the wake, Mother would insist Old Yeller wasn’t Irish at all. She
said his family had been English, Turk, Cuban - anything but Irish. She’d do anything
but admit he was Irish. I don’t know why; I don’t know what got her Irish up about
it. I guess as time passed and she passed from under his yoke, she tried to deny his
existence just as he’d denied hers for so many years.
After the wake, my brothers lit out for various places - the little ones to the
sanctuary of their rooms, some for the Territories, but most to taverns to get good
and lit. I stayed with Mother. I didn’t want to. I wanted to go down to Rex’s for old
time’s sake and get good and drunk. I wanted to be left alone. Yet, Mother made
that impossible. She began to speak to me.
At first I thought the voice came from the radio, but then I noticed her lips
moving. Sounds directed at me were emanating from Mother’s lips. I stood stunned,
unable to move. She’d communicated with me by signs and gestures for so many
years I knew I had to stay and hear what she had to say.
I found a fifth of scotch in the cupboard. She started drinking
shots neat and started to talk. I listened and drank cold beer.
According to her own recollection, Mother had been a knockout. I knew she had
been, I’d seen photos of her as a young woman. She had a lot of old photos of
herself and Old Yeller - back when he was Young Yeller. The photos were mixed in
with those of their brood, the oldest having had more photos taken of them of the
younger. The youngest had lost out altogether, one reason it had been difficult for
me to know exactly how many brothers I had - no record, you see.
She didn’t keep the photos neatly arranged in chronological order in albums, but
all a-jumble in shoeboxes. There was no order to the photos. Often, I couldn’t tell if
a photo was of a brother or me.
She’d dated older guys more sophisticated than guys her age. One in particular
had caught her eye and had become her steady beau. I inserted the word ‘lover’ for
‘beau’ when she used it. They dated heavily and planned to be married. Then World
War II arrived on the doorstep like a cadaver meant for the morgue.
Her beau, being of draft age, came to her apartment one night. He was drunk
and crying. When she calmed him, he confessed that he’d married a woman with
children so he wouldn’t be drafted.
“It’ll keep me out of the war,” he’d said.
She turned cold when he suggested they could still have their relationship.
That the marriage was for convenience only. She shook him off her shoulder and led
him to the door.
“Good-bye forever, you bastard,” she’d said.
She said it to me just as she must have said it to him for my heart turned. The
piss in my bladder froze. Within months he’d been drafted and several months
thereafter he’d been killed. Within months after hearing of his death she married Old
Yeller.
Old Yeller must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He couldn't have
believed he’d ever get a woman as gorgeous as Mother. He was handsome, she
told me, but inept as far as women were concerned. He looked good on her arm and
he didn’t demand anything more than her looking good as his arm too. He was her
chance to rise above the tragic canzone.
No long into the marriage some disgruntling signs began to appear. Old Yeller
wanted to make love only to make a baby. Mother didn’t say as much, but I
suspected she simply liked to screw. He reacted to her non-procreative seductions
with disgust. He also demanded control of the money. He was in the service and
she worked at a clothiers. Mother acquiesced because she didn’t care. Her calzone
had been baked the day the man she truly loved had died.
Then, one child into the marriage, the war ended. Old Yeller’s best friend
showed up on their doorstep. He was welcomed like family and the three shared
everything. When Mother said ‘everything’ I thought she meant ‘every-little-thing’. I
downed a full can of bear in several burning gulps.
Mother quickly corrected me. Besides, I was thinking thinking 1968 while they'd
lived their young lives in 1945. Not that it could not have happened that way in '45,
but not among them.
Still, Mother fell hard. She hounded him, begged him to take her away from
Eubetcha. She even offered her firstborn as a sacrifice, leaving him with Old Yeller.
The friend said he couldn’t do such a thing to a friend.
Eventually, he moved on to his own life and own woman. Old Yeller, suspecting
something, feeling his own vulnerability, hatched a plan to keep Mother barefoot,
pregnant and on the edge of town.
First, he made me. Then, her forbade her jewelry, make-up, store bought
clothing, a job, and a home in town. He moved her to the country and refused to
teach her how to drive. And he began yelling. She collapsed. Twice betrayed and
twice alone, she was done for.
At the close of these confessions, Mother folded her arms across her chest and
stared at me. I thought she was waited for my reaction.
"Whose child am I?"
Her laughter rattled the dishes in the cupboard and pictures fell from the walls.
“Oh, you’re his, alright. Why just look at yourself in a mirror,” she said.
Then she stopped talking. It was all sign language after that, leaving me
wishing for a father other than Old Yeller.
I still wish I’d been the friend’s child, though.
fiction by Geordie de Boer
fall '08 winter '09
Different Shades of Yeller
Mother’s Tragic Calzone
Following Old Yeller’s funeral, the family had a wake. The skies poured and a
heavy mist rose off the musty ground. It didn’t seem like a day for drinking coldbeer,
but we did anyway. After all, Old Yeller was Irish, we were Yellers, and wakes had
coldbeer. I’d forgotten about his being Irish until Mother said over and over at the
wake, “Ah, the poor pathetic Irishman.” I knew he was pathetic, or at least I’d
always considered him so, but I’d forgotten he was Irish.
Later, well after the wake, Mother would insist Old Yeller wasn’t Irish at all. She
said his family had been English, Turk, Cuban - anything but Irish. She’d do anything
but admit he was Irish. I don’t know why; I don’t know what got her Irish up about
it. I guess as time passed and she passed from under his yoke, she tried to deny his
existence just as he’d denied hers for so many years.
After the wake, my brothers lit out for various places - the little ones to the
sanctuary of their rooms, some for the Territories, but most to taverns to get good
and lit. I stayed with Mother. I didn’t want to. I wanted to go down to Rex’s for old
time’s sake and get good and drunk. I wanted to be left alone. Yet, Mother made
that impossible. She began to speak to me.
At first I thought the voice came from the radio, but then I noticed her lips
moving. Sounds directed at me were emanating from Mother’s lips. I stood stunned,
unable to move. She’d communicated with me by signs and gestures for so many
years I knew I had to stay and hear what she had to say.
I found a fifth of scotch in the cupboard. She started drinking
shots neat and started to talk. I listened and drank cold beer.
According to her own recollection, Mother had been a knockout. I knew she had
been, I’d seen photos of her as a young woman. She had a lot of old photos of
herself and Old Yeller - back when he was Young Yeller. The photos were mixed in
with those of their brood, the oldest having had more photos taken of them of the
younger. The youngest had lost out altogether, one reason it had been difficult for
me to know exactly how many brothers I had - no record, you see.
She didn’t keep the photos neatly arranged in chronological order in albums, but
all a-jumble in shoeboxes. There was no order to the photos. Often, I couldn’t tell if
a photo was of a brother or me.
She’d dated older guys more sophisticated than guys her age. One in particular
had caught her eye and had become her steady beau. I inserted the word ‘lover’ for
‘beau’ when she used it. They dated heavily and planned to be married. Then World
War II arrived on the doorstep like a cadaver meant for the morgue.
Her beau, being of draft age, came to her apartment one night. He was drunk
and crying. When she calmed him, he confessed that he’d married a woman with
children so he wouldn’t be drafted.
“It’ll keep me out of the war,” he’d said.
She turned cold when he suggested they could still have their relationship.
That the marriage was for convenience only. She shook him off her shoulder and led
him to the door.
“Good-bye forever, you bastard,” she’d said.
She said it to me just as she must have said it to him for my heart turned. The
piss in my bladder froze. Within months he’d been drafted and several months
thereafter he’d been killed. Within months after hearing of his death she married Old
Yeller.
Old Yeller must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He couldn't have
believed he’d ever get a woman as gorgeous as Mother. He was handsome, she
told me, but inept as far as women were concerned. He looked good on her arm and
he didn’t demand anything more than her looking good as his arm too. He was her
chance to rise above the tragic canzone.
No long into the marriage some disgruntling signs began to appear. Old Yeller
wanted to make love only to make a baby. Mother didn’t say as much, but I
suspected she simply liked to screw. He reacted to her non-procreative seductions
with disgust. He also demanded control of the money. He was in the service and
she worked at a clothiers. Mother acquiesced because she didn’t care. Her calzone
had been baked the day the man she truly loved had died.
Then, one child into the marriage, the war ended. Old Yeller’s best friend
showed up on their doorstep. He was welcomed like family and the three shared
everything. When Mother said ‘everything’ I thought she meant ‘every-little-thing’. I
downed a full can of bear in several burning gulps.
Mother quickly corrected me. Besides, I was thinking thinking 1968 while they'd
lived their young lives in 1945. Not that it could not have happened that way in '45,
but not among them.
Still, Mother fell hard. She hounded him, begged him to take her away from
Eubetcha. She even offered her firstborn as a sacrifice, leaving him with Old Yeller.
The friend said he couldn’t do such a thing to a friend.
Eventually, he moved on to his own life and own woman. Old Yeller, suspecting
something, feeling his own vulnerability, hatched a plan to keep Mother barefoot,
pregnant and on the edge of town.
First, he made me. Then, her forbade her jewelry, make-up, store bought
clothing, a job, and a home in town. He moved her to the country and refused to
teach her how to drive. And he began yelling. She collapsed. Twice betrayed and
twice alone, she was done for.
At the close of these confessions, Mother folded her arms across her chest and
stared at me. I thought she was waited for my reaction.
"Whose child am I?"
Her laughter rattled the dishes in the cupboard and pictures fell from the walls.
“Oh, you’re his, alright. Why just look at yourself in a mirror,” she said.
Then she stopped talking. It was all sign language after that, leaving me
wishing for a father other than Old Yeller.
I still wish I’d been the friend’s child, though.
Old Yeller’s Canzone
Old Yeller was like a spud in an oven. He couldn’t rid himself of lust through
screwing. No screwing for pleasure. Only reproduction. He screwed in anger rather
than love. To dominate.
Giving in to love-lust might have diminished his anger rather than fueling it. He
hated everything. Though Aunt Woozy said he was a frustrated comedian, I
believed his ambitions ran to the priesthood. During the Inquisition. His tortures
were exquisite and religious.
When his yelling had no effect, he sang he praises of The Right Way with a
morally correct back beat. If he couldn’t terrorize us into behaving The Right Way
he'd quickly move to guilt. Being Catholic, he came by this naturally.
I had The Right Way thrown in my face along with liberal doses of tongue lashing.
The Right Way wasn’t necessarily right, but it was Old Yeller’s his way. And since
Old Yeller was the most moral human being he knew, The Right Way was the moral
way, too. I came to believe The Right Way must exist. I was even convinced that Old
Yeller knew it.
When Number One and I were young, he’d yell us out of our warm beds in the
morning and drag us to early mass. Since he didn’t say what he expected us to
learn, I missed the point. All I got from those mornings were sore knees and from
prolonged genuflecting. I had neither the stamina nor resilience to be a Catholic and
he soon tired of church going. He expended so much effort yelling, working and
procreating he couldn’t get up early.
Old Yeller used to take Number One and me fishing, too. Fishing trips dwindled
with each new baby until I could count them on one finger. As more kids arrived the
fishing expeditions became camping trips.
My brothers and I would race around collecting dirt while Mother built a
campfire, made meals, scrubbed pots and pans and finally cleaned us up for bed. Old
Yeller would sit with a mug of coffee contemplating the activity and, perhaps, nature.
Family camping trips were my Mother’s hell. I don’t know if the camping stopped
because she put her foot down (I find that doubtful), or if her constant glumness
made it hard for Old Yeller to get into a contemplative mood, or if he tired of camping
as he had for church and fishing.
Old Yeller’s canzone moved Mother to Repugnant Valley, which had no town. He
commuted miles to work instead of renting a place in Bluejeans near the mill. And
like I said, Mother didn’t drive. When Old Yeller finally agreed to teach her, she drove
the car into a ditch. Her mistake gave him the excuse to never let her behind the
wheel again. And it got her knocked up to boot.
Old Yeller forbade Mother her beauty, banning lipstick, nail polish, make-up and
jewelry. Before the wake, before I learned this, I'd assumed she was just a plain
woman rather than one too beautiful for her own good.
Our rented shanty trembled by the side of Sky Highway taking traffic east and
west across the state. Freight trucks and passenger cars whizzed back and forth
day after day. Mother stood in the kitchen washing dishes, or preparing meals, or
canning fruits and vegetables, or feeding babies and watched they were only
traveling salesmen or bible-thumpers. They caught the full blast of Mother’s shotgun-
rage. If real people weren’t going to stop and chat, she sure as hell wasn’t going to
entertain charlatans.
When Mother made calzone, she’d ask Old Yeller if he'd like some. He always
looked at it grimly but also with longing as if there were nothing in the world he
wanted more before shouting, "Judas Priest, what do you think?” Fry me a couple of
eggs, for crying out loud.”
‘Judas Priest’ and ‘for crying out loud’ were his two favorite curses. He had an
odd way of swearing for an Irishman. But, he never took the Lord’s name in vain.
That was Old Yeller for you. He took a lot of other things - like Mother’s pride - in
vain to make up for not taking the Lord’s name in vain.
Mother only asked Old Yeller if he’d like to eat calzone. She didn’t have the
temerity to ask him if he liked calzone. She knew. She made it for my brothers and
me. None of us had the temerity to say how much we hated it. We ate every bite
put on our plate.
A Song of Old Yeller
(to the tune of Spring Hill Mine Disaster)
In Repugnant Valley, you don’t rest easy,
Often Old Yeller will mutter and groan.
When Old Yeller yells his family cries—
Egos shattered ‘neath the dead grey sky,
Egos shattered ‘neath the dead grey sky.
Old Yeller was like a spud in an oven. He couldn’t rid himself of lust through
screwing. No screwing for pleasure. Only reproduction. He screwed in anger rather
than love. To dominate.
Giving in to love-lust might have diminished his anger rather than fueling it. He
hated everything. Though Aunt Woozy said he was a frustrated comedian, I
believed his ambitions ran to the priesthood. During the Inquisition. His tortures
were exquisite and religious.
When his yelling had no effect, he sang he praises of The Right Way with a
morally correct back beat. If he couldn’t terrorize us into behaving The Right Way
he'd quickly move to guilt. Being Catholic, he came by this naturally.
I had The Right Way thrown in my face along with liberal doses of tongue lashing.
The Right Way wasn’t necessarily right, but it was Old Yeller’s his way. And since
Old Yeller was the most moral human being he knew, The Right Way was the moral
way, too. I came to believe The Right Way must exist. I was even convinced that Old
Yeller knew it.
When Number One and I were young, he’d yell us out of our warm beds in the
morning and drag us to early mass. Since he didn’t say what he expected us to
learn, I missed the point. All I got from those mornings were sore knees and from
prolonged genuflecting. I had neither the stamina nor resilience to be a Catholic and
he soon tired of church going. He expended so much effort yelling, working and
procreating he couldn’t get up early.
Old Yeller used to take Number One and me fishing, too. Fishing trips dwindled
with each new baby until I could count them on one finger. As more kids arrived the
fishing expeditions became camping trips.
My brothers and I would race around collecting dirt while Mother built a
campfire, made meals, scrubbed pots and pans and finally cleaned us up for bed. Old
Yeller would sit with a mug of coffee contemplating the activity and, perhaps, nature.
Family camping trips were my Mother’s hell. I don’t know if the camping stopped
because she put her foot down (I find that doubtful), or if her constant glumness
made it hard for Old Yeller to get into a contemplative mood, or if he tired of camping
as he had for church and fishing.
Old Yeller’s canzone moved Mother to Repugnant Valley, which had no town. He
commuted miles to work instead of renting a place in Bluejeans near the mill. And
like I said, Mother didn’t drive. When Old Yeller finally agreed to teach her, she drove
the car into a ditch. Her mistake gave him the excuse to never let her behind the
wheel again. And it got her knocked up to boot.
Old Yeller forbade Mother her beauty, banning lipstick, nail polish, make-up and
jewelry. Before the wake, before I learned this, I'd assumed she was just a plain
woman rather than one too beautiful for her own good.
Our rented shanty trembled by the side of Sky Highway taking traffic east and
west across the state. Freight trucks and passenger cars whizzed back and forth
day after day. Mother stood in the kitchen washing dishes, or preparing meals, or
canning fruits and vegetables, or feeding babies and watched they were only
traveling salesmen or bible-thumpers. They caught the full blast of Mother’s shotgun-
rage. If real people weren’t going to stop and chat, she sure as hell wasn’t going to
entertain charlatans.
When Mother made calzone, she’d ask Old Yeller if he'd like some. He always
looked at it grimly but also with longing as if there were nothing in the world he
wanted more before shouting, "Judas Priest, what do you think?” Fry me a couple of
eggs, for crying out loud.”
‘Judas Priest’ and ‘for crying out loud’ were his two favorite curses. He had an
odd way of swearing for an Irishman. But, he never took the Lord’s name in vain.
That was Old Yeller for you. He took a lot of other things - like Mother’s pride - in
vain to make up for not taking the Lord’s name in vain.
Mother only asked Old Yeller if he’d like to eat calzone. She didn’t have the
temerity to ask him if he liked calzone. She knew. She made it for my brothers and
me. None of us had the temerity to say how much we hated it. We ate every bite
put on our plate.
A Song of Old Yeller
(to the tune of Spring Hill Mine Disaster)
In Repugnant Valley, you don’t rest easy,
Often Old Yeller will mutter and groan.
When Old Yeller yells his family cries—
Egos shattered ‘neath the dead grey sky,
Egos shattered ‘neath the dead grey sky.
If Old Yeller Had Raised Richard Brautigan
If Richard Brautigan had been Old Yeller’s son he wouldn't have have put up with
all that crap. He wouldn’t have argued. He would have grabbed his fishing pole and
headed out for the Fork You-Very-Much of the Willaqua River. He wouldn’t have
waited around for Old Yeller to take him fishing. Richard Brautigan would have gone
fishing by himself and let Old Yeller’s wind blow by.
He still would have been poor, but he would have taken welfare. Old Yeller’s
pride wouldn’t let us take it even when we were desperate.
Richard Brautigan wouldn't have called Old Yeller a narrow-minded son-of-a-bitch
even though he would have thought it. Richard Brautigan would have let Old Yeller’s
vitriol roll off his back like so much watermelon sugar off a brook trout. Instead of
going to the woodshed to pray that Old Yeller would stop yelling, Richard Brautigan
would have gone to the river and done his own thing.
“Let the old bastard yell,” he would have said to himself. “I don’t have to stand
around and listen to it. There’s a big old trout just waiting for me in that pool below
Mt. Pisonya. I’ll go talk to him.”
I fished that damned Fork You-Very-Much of the Willaqua from where it flows
under the green metal bridge on Sky Highway to that pool at the base of Mt.
Pisonya and never caught one trout. I don’t believe that there are any trout in that
river. But if Richard Brautigan said there were, then there must have been.
I tried to develop a way of letting Old Yeller’s words go by me without harm. For
a while I believed I did. Only much later did I realize I'd taken those words inside
me. That's how I kept their repetitions out. His words set up an outpost in my
mind. They wire-tapped my circuitry. Their insidious bureaucracy intercepted the
stimulus from the outside world.
Richard Brautigan wouldn’t have had that problem. and he wouldn't have been
bothered by Mother’s indifference, either. From what I gather, his mother pretty
much ignored him, too. If he'd been raised by Old Yeller and Mother, Richard
Brautigan would have developed his same fine imagination. He would have written
the same books. He would have been compelled to do so. To survive.
One of my chores growing up was to chop kindling and stove-wood for our
heating stove. The stove stood in the great-room that served as dining and living
space. The great room was not that great; there was no wall between the miniscule
living area and the miniscule dining area.
The wood stove had to heat both the lower and upper floors. Of course, the
heat never wound its way to the upper floor where most of my brothers and I slept.
I remember some winter nights shivering under one blanket and Old Yeller’s wool
military overcoat.
Once Mother got the fire going in the morning, I’d hunch my butt up on top of
that old wood stove to draw every ounce of heat possible into my frigid body. I tried
to cadge every molecule of heat I could hoping it would continue to warm me
through the day. I hated that damned wood stove and that damned wood chopping
chore, but I think Richard Brautigan would have been all right with it. Living in that
rickety house was like camping and Richard Brautigan liked camping.
The only thing I liked about chopping wood was the relief from Old Yeller’s
wrath. I knelt and prayed on the cold stone step that led down to the dirt floor of
the woodshed. Those prayers certainly weren’t answered immediately. I don’t think
Richard Brautigan would have bothered with praying, but I’ll bet he would’ve been
one hell of a woodchopper.
Because these prayers didn’t seem to work, I considered killing myself once or
twice. I never did because I couldn’t figure out how to go about it. I couldn’t see
chopping myself to death. I suppose that even had Richard Brautigan let most of Old
Yeller’s and Mother’s crap roll off his back like so much duck-shit, he still would have
killed himself.
I outlived Old Yeller and Mother both and discovered Richard Brautigan and
fishing along the way. When you are casting onto a trout stream, wondering how
to cut it in sections for resale, you get a different perspective on life. It's supposed
to be absurd.
If Richard Brautigan had been Old Yeller’s son he wouldn't have have put up with
all that crap. He wouldn’t have argued. He would have grabbed his fishing pole and
headed out for the Fork You-Very-Much of the Willaqua River. He wouldn’t have
waited around for Old Yeller to take him fishing. Richard Brautigan would have gone
fishing by himself and let Old Yeller’s wind blow by.
He still would have been poor, but he would have taken welfare. Old Yeller’s
pride wouldn’t let us take it even when we were desperate.
Richard Brautigan wouldn't have called Old Yeller a narrow-minded son-of-a-bitch
even though he would have thought it. Richard Brautigan would have let Old Yeller’s
vitriol roll off his back like so much watermelon sugar off a brook trout. Instead of
going to the woodshed to pray that Old Yeller would stop yelling, Richard Brautigan
would have gone to the river and done his own thing.
“Let the old bastard yell,” he would have said to himself. “I don’t have to stand
around and listen to it. There’s a big old trout just waiting for me in that pool below
Mt. Pisonya. I’ll go talk to him.”
I fished that damned Fork You-Very-Much of the Willaqua from where it flows
under the green metal bridge on Sky Highway to that pool at the base of Mt.
Pisonya and never caught one trout. I don’t believe that there are any trout in that
river. But if Richard Brautigan said there were, then there must have been.
I tried to develop a way of letting Old Yeller’s words go by me without harm. For
a while I believed I did. Only much later did I realize I'd taken those words inside
me. That's how I kept their repetitions out. His words set up an outpost in my
mind. They wire-tapped my circuitry. Their insidious bureaucracy intercepted the
stimulus from the outside world.
Richard Brautigan wouldn’t have had that problem. and he wouldn't have been
bothered by Mother’s indifference, either. From what I gather, his mother pretty
much ignored him, too. If he'd been raised by Old Yeller and Mother, Richard
Brautigan would have developed his same fine imagination. He would have written
the same books. He would have been compelled to do so. To survive.
One of my chores growing up was to chop kindling and stove-wood for our
heating stove. The stove stood in the great-room that served as dining and living
space. The great room was not that great; there was no wall between the miniscule
living area and the miniscule dining area.
The wood stove had to heat both the lower and upper floors. Of course, the
heat never wound its way to the upper floor where most of my brothers and I slept.
I remember some winter nights shivering under one blanket and Old Yeller’s wool
military overcoat.
Once Mother got the fire going in the morning, I’d hunch my butt up on top of
that old wood stove to draw every ounce of heat possible into my frigid body. I tried
to cadge every molecule of heat I could hoping it would continue to warm me
through the day. I hated that damned wood stove and that damned wood chopping
chore, but I think Richard Brautigan would have been all right with it. Living in that
rickety house was like camping and Richard Brautigan liked camping.
The only thing I liked about chopping wood was the relief from Old Yeller’s
wrath. I knelt and prayed on the cold stone step that led down to the dirt floor of
the woodshed. Those prayers certainly weren’t answered immediately. I don’t think
Richard Brautigan would have bothered with praying, but I’ll bet he would’ve been
one hell of a woodchopper.
Because these prayers didn’t seem to work, I considered killing myself once or
twice. I never did because I couldn’t figure out how to go about it. I couldn’t see
chopping myself to death. I suppose that even had Richard Brautigan let most of Old
Yeller’s and Mother’s crap roll off his back like so much duck-shit, he still would have
killed himself.
I outlived Old Yeller and Mother both and discovered Richard Brautigan and
fishing along the way. When you are casting onto a trout stream, wondering how
to cut it in sections for resale, you get a different perspective on life. It's supposed
to be absurd.
