Our annual Fourth of July football game was under way. Little kids, senior citizens, even girls were allowed to play. I was going only half-speed as I had already eaten two hotdogs and two hamburgers. Even with this massive load in my stomach I caught a touchdown thrown by my uncle Frank. He could play with a cigarette in his mouth–that takes talent. When he gave the football to his son, little Frankie ran the wrong way and kept going until he was tackled in my neighbor’s yard. The turnout was big this year–nearly a hundred cousins and friends. All together in our front yard. I was proud. We were drinking, sweating and swatting away gnats. At dark the fireflies came out, then fireworks and sparklers.
All the nurses at Dialysis love me. I’m sure of it. I am starting to love a couple of them, even with my girlfriend sitting in the lobby. I will survive this kidney thing and then she will kill me. The food she has cooked for me tastes like poison, but so far I am all right. I tell the nurses when I think they look beautiful. It helps to pass the time. They are sticking big needles in my arm, so I try to stay on their good side.
I am grateful for my home. It provides me shelter from an often cruel world.
I am grateful for my dog. He gives me unconditional love like no other.
I am grateful for my car. Without it I might have to call Uber.
I am grateful for my food. Nothing has provided more satisfaction in my life than food.
I am grateful for Netflix. Since quitting pot, Netflix has helped me escape reality.
I am grateful to be alive. Passing away and going to my eternal rest is not yet appealing.
When you get totally angry at someone and in return they get furious with you, yet neither of you go anywhere, that is called being in a relationship. This behavior can occur over and over again, causing high blood pressure, stress, and hemorrhoid flare up.
Why does this childish phenomena occur? Is it just poor communication? A need to be the one who is right? Or just the fact that we somehow need to hurt the one we love. I don’t know but I need to figure this out.
I heard my dad yell up the stairs, “Boys, we’re going to Aunt City’s after church.”
I put on my best blue sweater. My Aunt City was a real chef–I had seen a picture of her with a chef’s hat on. She welcomed us into her kitchen with kisses on our cheeks and big hugs. She filled the kitchen table with foods like country ham and cheese spread with Ritz crackers. It was so good, cheesy and salty.
Her homemade kinklings were very special: square donuts designed to hold more powdered sugar. I ate one at the table and ate two later when I hid in the broom closet. I was sneaky like that, but Dad noticed that my sweater was covered with sugar.
She served a powerful eggnog. I drank a cup and threw up in her spotless bathroom.
Uncle Joe and Aunt City had been eating this good food all their lives, and they were both quite large. Uncle Joe’s back was three feet wide. He could really block your view of the TV. Aunt City had big ankles which carried her through a loving life of cooking and taking care of Joe, a railroad worker.
When mass ended, the priest said, “The mass has ended. Go in peace.” My brother and I would smile and reply loudly, “Thanks be to God!”
We knew we were going to Aunt City’s.