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our father.
After seein' Momma and Dad get into it a little bit and then them kiss and make up like that I wondered what was goin' on and if maybe I miss out on things sometimes or if adults have secret codes we just don't understand. Jillian says it's nothing to worry about and that things get clearer when you get older and I should just enjoy being stupid for a while longer, like she knows anything, anyhow.

Our father is tough to figure out sometimes. He's gone a lot and maybe that's it, but for today figuring him out doesn't seem as important as I thought it would yesterday 'cause today he's pickin' me up after he gets back from a sales meeting to carry me over to Doctor Minnehans to cut my cast off. He says that if it comes off in just two pieces he'll mount it like that big mouth bass he caught and that hangs in his woodshop over the planer/jointer thingie.

"We'll shellac'er up good and make a name plate and everything, N.B." I like how he always ends things he says to me by palming my head like he was gonna pick me up by my scalp. It doesn't hurt, it feels good, serious and strong.

"Can't you see it?" He sounded like a radio baseball announcer. "It'll read--'Major League Baseball Hall of Famer N.B. Sherman's Right Arm Cast, age 10 years'--all done up in brass--something for the record books."

"Then even more people will wish they signed your arm, buddy."

I love my dad.



comments[2]  |   5/5/2005  |  perma-link/trackback

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