Your journalistic skills, like those of Hemingway and Hillerman, once again stand you in good stead. Another compelling entry in this series--poignant without sentiment, exciting without sensation. I especially savor the through-line of your love for music in any genre. Was your house on Camden demolished and rebuilt? It doesn't look the same. Keep writing these. I look forward to them.
I’m not sure about the old house. I’ve driven by there a couple of times through the years and it really does look different. It was red bricks when we lived there, but since at least the mid 70s it’s outside color is off white
The grandfather we have in common, Roy Terrell, died when I was about 9 years old. He'd suffered a stroke two years before that, and was in a wheelchair, so I don't have many memories of him as a lively man. My grandmother Belle lasted another 13 years, and even remarried (an old-age marriage for companionship).
We called my father's parents Mom and Pop. They lived in Albuquerque, and kept chickens and bees. I loved the chickens and hated the bees. Pop had one of those beekeeper's helmets and a smoker, but he never protected his hands, and I seem to remember him casually pinching a few stingers out of the backs of his hands after retrieving a big dripping wad of honeycomb. "I always get stung a few times," he said, and laughed.
Great read on your Papa and Nana!
Your journalistic skills, like those of Hemingway and Hillerman, once again stand you in good stead. Another compelling entry in this series--poignant without sentiment, exciting without sensation. I especially savor the through-line of your love for music in any genre. Was your house on Camden demolished and rebuilt? It doesn't look the same. Keep writing these. I look forward to them.
Thanks Kris.
I’m not sure about the old house. I’ve driven by there a couple of times through the years and it really does look different. It was red bricks when we lived there, but since at least the mid 70s it’s outside color is off white
The grandfather we have in common, Roy Terrell, died when I was about 9 years old. He'd suffered a stroke two years before that, and was in a wheelchair, so I don't have many memories of him as a lively man. My grandmother Belle lasted another 13 years, and even remarried (an old-age marriage for companionship).
We called my father's parents Mom and Pop. They lived in Albuquerque, and kept chickens and bees. I loved the chickens and hated the bees. Pop had one of those beekeeper's helmets and a smoker, but he never protected his hands, and I seem to remember him casually pinching a few stingers out of the backs of his hands after retrieving a big dripping wad of honeycomb. "I always get stung a few times," he said, and laughed.