It never took the hunger away,
it was like something my dad would do,
to keep us at the edge of our seats,
always sharp and fresh, never lagging behind...
But you're right, some of it was depressing.
It's the story of a WSB (white suburban boy)
who greets his father at age three
in a VA surgical hospital in Utah.
The latter is a blown-up survivor of WWII.
He has no hands, a severed right optic nerve,
his jaw and neck are severely lacerated
where the grenade shrapnel tore into his flesh.
The boy rode there with his mother in a train
from the San Francisco Bay Area.
The three eventually go home to San Leandro
and then to Walnut Creek, California
where three more sons are added to the family
plus a dog named Duffy, and Puss-Puss, the cat
and fifty homing pigeons...
The father becomes Prosthetic Chief
for the VA in San Francisco,
and the Mom is the patient, steady, angelic glue
that holds the whole enchilada together.
Currently the story is 67 years old,
has 40 years of poetry in it, at least a dozen songs,
and 54 weekly/Friday columns from a small
waterfront town newspaper, The Benicia Herald...
Gonna be a helluva book. Parts of it
are hilarious, reflective, insightful,
even inspirational...AND, it ain't over
until it's all written down, at least most of it.
I'll send you last week's column entitled,
"In a Quince Corner," about growing up
in the former walnut orchards of Walnut Creek.
Watch your snail mail in a day or two.
Thanks for the early comments on my Blog,
and you were right, but it's just an hors d'oeuvre
for what's still coming down the road...
With cheers, Pedro (WSB).
©Peter Bray, 1/27/10 All rights reserved
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