We lived in
Grandpa’s house, in the bedroom attic, my brother and I back in the late
fifties and throughout half the sixties.
The
floorboards squeaked like mice, and the walls were cardboard paper thin.
The
summers were hot, and the winters cold and reserved.
And
the branches from the huge oak tree in front of the house, beat against the
bedroom window.
There
were times I pulled the sheets over my head, from the roaring and riding wind
that swept over the porch roof, above where our bedroom window stood.
And
I tried to be as quiet day to night, as quite as I could be, at ten and
fourteen, and so on; and rest assure, if I wasn’t grandpa’s tongue was as
powerful as horse hooves, so loud I thought it would set the bedroom clothes on
fire.
In
the middle of the night, I’d wake from a dream—I had whips, and lassos like the
Lone Ranger, and Zorro!
I
was, more often than not, the hero of runaway coaches on mountain passes, --
On
a white horse in a windy gallop
Past
cactus fields, I’d yell: “Gee-up!”
Then
when I had to stop quickly, “Whoa!”
Then
I trotted some.
And
then I woke up, usually not getting to finish the dream, unfortunately.
No:
4739/3-28-2015
