CHERISHED REFLECTIONS
Written by: M. Melody Tuli
It had always seemed strange to me when younger, that I hadn’t really acquired many if any, of my family’s traits. Of course it wasn’t unusual for families to all resemble one another or look as though the entire clan had been pulled through a Xerox machine. However, the opposite is true for families to look as complete strangers, yet live under
the same roof. But in the latter of situations, there are usually traits from other personalities, views, common likes and dislikes. Not to mention the numerous inherited
family ties. None of the above mentioned could I find about me with my family life. Not only did I look and feel different, as though the wallflower gal at the first spring-fling dance. Maybe it was being the only child, the only one residing at home with my parents that made me feel so all alone.
My brother was eighteen years my senior. I had nephews from my sister’s marriage some only a few months from my age. This left many controversial conversations for Mother and her many acquaintances.
I was the original late bloomer. My sister was a dark haired, dark eyed beauty.
Here I was this skinny red headed, freckle-faced, goose-berry-eyed kid. I was the only red head in our family. My grandfather had once been, but I hadn’t known of his misfortune. The common question repeatedly asked in our home by our numerous guests was, “my goodness Eddie, where did that child get that red hair”? My mother’s name was Edith.
She would simply smile for her response, and then look at me as if I were the guilty party. So, I began my search to, in fact, find the missing relative in question for this carrot-top of mine. Goodness, I felt had nothing to do with my dilemma.
Weeks then months went by. I felt my search had ended with no prevail. Finally, one afternoon while playing a vigorous game of hide-and-seek along with about two dozen other neighborhood children, the count down began. “5, 10, 15…” then I felt my fingers clench the sideboards of my grandfather’s white washed tool shed. We were all congregated in his backyard. Along came the trash truck for it’s weekly service.
The men at that time who road the trucks were also called, “honey dipper’s”, which had nothing to do with bees or honey. They hauled away garbage and cleaned the out houses.
These were during the Great Depression days. You were very blessed if you had indoor plumbing of any kind. We didn’t. I had to pump water from our well, fill up a bucket at a time. Then pour it into Mama’s wood burning stove. It had a tank at the back, a reservoir built beside it to keep water warm as she cooked. Which was also used for our bathing, we did behind our coal burning stove in our living area.
Bathing was done in a large tub, usually with homemade soaps of lye, oatmeal or lard. Lavender scented soaps that Aunt Tellie had sent to Mama but that was used just for special occasions.
You could always count on a fresh baked loaf or two, or Mama’s potato-water bread or her light bread rolls. There were many cold days and nights that I prayed we’d had indoor luxuries.
I feared my face had shown the horror I had been thinking. Thinking so loudly that surely that old Jack Blackmere would hear. Or perhaps he could hear the rapid beats from my heart. Could he see me hiding behind grandpa’s shed? I grabbed the hem of my bleached muslin dress, to make sure there was no sight of me. It wasn’t so much the fear of him, as the idea with my childish thoughts.
He had a broad back and arms like lead pipes. Enormous! The most terrifying thing of all was his full flaming red beard and locks. With imagination running wild, my thoughts were a whirlwind. Maybe I really belong to old Jake? Could it be he’s coming back for me? Oh, what dreadful questions. It would seem I was the only little redheaded, freckle-faced girl around. How long would I worry and wonder?
Mother received a Western Union telegram. She waited for what I thought had been hours before opening it. I stood anxiously awaiting beside her flour-coated table.
She wiped the flour and dough from her hands on her blue and white-checked gingham apron. She read, but never a word out loud. I stared at the movement of her hazel eyes from side to side. Then in a nonchalant voice she said, “Well, it seems your cousin Del Mae is coming this summer for a visit. She is your Uncle Ned’s baby girl. He has a sheep ranch in Wyoming. She’s only a year or two older than you, Margie.”
My heart was filled with overwhelming joy! “Come on Margie,” Mama said. “We’ll be late for Del Mae’s train. Oh, look at your hair, it’s just straight as a pin. Let’s go.”
My sister drove us to the train depot. It must have been at least a two-hour drive. Mama talked on and on, about as fast as her crochet hook moved. She made several lace doilies by the time we reached our destination.
Del Mae’s train was ten minutes delayed. I chewed my fingers as Mama and sister chewed the fat. The hard iron locomotive finally came to a halt. As the smoke cleared the conductor sorted the baggage. He picked up one small, well-used case as the train doors opened.
My eyes stared at a wonderful red headed, freckle-faced, gooseberry eyed little girl. Del Mae was dressed in a starched flour-sack smock.
As soon as our smiling eyes met, I knew this was indeed my family. A sense of belonging finally calmed my weary spirit, but most importantly that cherished reflection of Del Mae’s beauty and mine…
Written by: M. Melody Tuli
Cherished Reflections
Published: The Mountain Laurel River Review-
November 1989
About 1,075 Words
Short Story - Fiction
First Rights
_________________________________________________
”Cherished Reflections” was written in honor of my Mother.
Marjorie M. Spader and her childhood memories.
_________________________________________________
Written by: M. Melody Tuli
It had always seemed strange to me when younger, that I hadn’t really acquired many if any, of my family’s traits. Of course it wasn’t unusual for families to all resemble one another or look as though the entire clan had been pulled through a Xerox machine. However, the opposite is true for families to look as complete strangers, yet live under
the same roof. But in the latter of situations, there are usually traits from other personalities, views, common likes and dislikes. Not to mention the numerous inherited
family ties. None of the above mentioned could I find about me with my family life. Not only did I look and feel different, as though the wallflower gal at the first spring-fling dance. Maybe it was being the only child, the only one residing at home with my parents that made me feel so all alone.
My brother was eighteen years my senior. I had nephews from my sister’s marriage some only a few months from my age. This left many controversial conversations for Mother and her many acquaintances.
I was the original late bloomer. My sister was a dark haired, dark eyed beauty.
Here I was this skinny red headed, freckle-faced, goose-berry-eyed kid. I was the only red head in our family. My grandfather had once been, but I hadn’t known of his misfortune. The common question repeatedly asked in our home by our numerous guests was, “my goodness Eddie, where did that child get that red hair”? My mother’s name was Edith.
She would simply smile for her response, and then look at me as if I were the guilty party. So, I began my search to, in fact, find the missing relative in question for this carrot-top of mine. Goodness, I felt had nothing to do with my dilemma.
Weeks then months went by. I felt my search had ended with no prevail. Finally, one afternoon while playing a vigorous game of hide-and-seek along with about two dozen other neighborhood children, the count down began. “5, 10, 15…” then I felt my fingers clench the sideboards of my grandfather’s white washed tool shed. We were all congregated in his backyard. Along came the trash truck for it’s weekly service.
The men at that time who road the trucks were also called, “honey dipper’s”, which had nothing to do with bees or honey. They hauled away garbage and cleaned the out houses.
These were during the Great Depression days. You were very blessed if you had indoor plumbing of any kind. We didn’t. I had to pump water from our well, fill up a bucket at a time. Then pour it into Mama’s wood burning stove. It had a tank at the back, a reservoir built beside it to keep water warm as she cooked. Which was also used for our bathing, we did behind our coal burning stove in our living area.
Bathing was done in a large tub, usually with homemade soaps of lye, oatmeal or lard. Lavender scented soaps that Aunt Tellie had sent to Mama but that was used just for special occasions.
You could always count on a fresh baked loaf or two, or Mama’s potato-water bread or her light bread rolls. There were many cold days and nights that I prayed we’d had indoor luxuries.
I feared my face had shown the horror I had been thinking. Thinking so loudly that surely that old Jack Blackmere would hear. Or perhaps he could hear the rapid beats from my heart. Could he see me hiding behind grandpa’s shed? I grabbed the hem of my bleached muslin dress, to make sure there was no sight of me. It wasn’t so much the fear of him, as the idea with my childish thoughts.
He had a broad back and arms like lead pipes. Enormous! The most terrifying thing of all was his full flaming red beard and locks. With imagination running wild, my thoughts were a whirlwind. Maybe I really belong to old Jake? Could it be he’s coming back for me? Oh, what dreadful questions. It would seem I was the only little redheaded, freckle-faced girl around. How long would I worry and wonder?
Mother received a Western Union telegram. She waited for what I thought had been hours before opening it. I stood anxiously awaiting beside her flour-coated table.
She wiped the flour and dough from her hands on her blue and white-checked gingham apron. She read, but never a word out loud. I stared at the movement of her hazel eyes from side to side. Then in a nonchalant voice she said, “Well, it seems your cousin Del Mae is coming this summer for a visit. She is your Uncle Ned’s baby girl. He has a sheep ranch in Wyoming. She’s only a year or two older than you, Margie.”
My heart was filled with overwhelming joy! “Come on Margie,” Mama said. “We’ll be late for Del Mae’s train. Oh, look at your hair, it’s just straight as a pin. Let’s go.”
My sister drove us to the train depot. It must have been at least a two-hour drive. Mama talked on and on, about as fast as her crochet hook moved. She made several lace doilies by the time we reached our destination.
Del Mae’s train was ten minutes delayed. I chewed my fingers as Mama and sister chewed the fat. The hard iron locomotive finally came to a halt. As the smoke cleared the conductor sorted the baggage. He picked up one small, well-used case as the train doors opened.
My eyes stared at a wonderful red headed, freckle-faced, gooseberry eyed little girl. Del Mae was dressed in a starched flour-sack smock.
As soon as our smiling eyes met, I knew this was indeed my family. A sense of belonging finally calmed my weary spirit, but most importantly that cherished reflection of Del Mae’s beauty and mine…
Written by: M. Melody Tuli
Cherished Reflections
Published: The Mountain Laurel River Review-
November 1989
About 1,075 Words
Short Story - Fiction
First Rights
_________________________________________________
”Cherished Reflections” was written in honor of my Mother.
Marjorie M. Spader and her childhood memories.
_________________________________________________
My Father taught me so many things, above all to be kind to children, animals and to respect my elders and their wisdom. He saw the beauty in everything. He told me God was the Master Painter. We'd watch the sunsets together. He'd tell me that every object even a blade of grass, every leaf and snowflake not any one design or pattern was the same.
He planted outstanding gardens. Flower, vegetable and herb. His flower garden was arranged with all sizes, shades of color and variety of fragrances. Our vegetable garden was bountiful. To actually be able to plant a seed and then to eat it's results... He taught me how to take the seeds from a four o'clock flower. How they would awake then sleep again. He explained that was how they were given their name. We would collect marigold seed to plant the following year. He told me that lily of the valley was his mother's favorite flower how delicate they were but the most fragrant by far. I had no idea then that it would also become a favorite of mine.
The vegetables that were harvested we gave to friends and neighbors. Mom didn't have a deep freezer and never really took an interest in canning or the fruits or vegetables so, we always had an abundance.
He also had a wonderful herb garden. The strong scent of dill, the sweet smell and taste of mint. We had several varieties of mint, spearmint was a favorite of mine. Father would tear off a piece of the lemon mint leaf, and we would sample it together. "Das es gut,” he would say to me with a smile upon his face and a gleem in his eyes.
He use to put a nail through an ear of corn then place the cob on top of our wood pile which was directly behind our back patio. Mom and I would look out our kitchen window while eating our breakfast and see little chipmunks scurry to and from the top of Dad's wood pile. There was a particular one we called, "Alvin." He would go to the top and sit, look with his cheeks full, while eating daddy's corn. Much later we all discovered that Alvin was in fact an Alvinetta. She had several babies she would travel with at times upon her back. We also had our occasional rabbits that felt free to come and go. These were truly my magical moments...
Dad made us a big tire swing which hung from the black walnut tree out back. We had a large sandbox made from an old tractor tire. Father had elm trees at the end of our yard which provided a nice hedge. He had a beautiful flowering crab apple tree that he crossbred and grafted three different types of apples from. He had bird houses which he made from seasonal gourds. He packed them with soot for his many feathered guest. He often had to chase away the uninvited guest, our neighborhood dogs.
We had badminton tournaments in which the net had been stretched between two iron post on top of which were father's family of wrens residing. Their small huts were painted canary yellow to attract them. We sat an ate our summer barbecue's on dad's picnic table that he built from scrap oak lumber.
We had all species of birds, bumblebees, butterflies and always the annual wooly worm which we relied upon for our winter weather predictions. We had robins of course, our little wrens, sparrows even unexpected landings from the dainty humming birds. It seemed we always had an abundance of nature surrounding us.
I can remember dad setting up targets to practice shooting his bebe gun. The targets he used were old aluminum pie pans. He placed them at the end of our elm tree hedge. He always sat in a lawn chair. One day I saw him practicing and ask if I could learn to shoot. He had shown me how to place your mark between the V mark and to line up your sights. He said,"Make sure you only aim and shoot at the targets and don't shoot at anything else or aim it at anyone." He left me alone, I was getting pretty confident and cocky with his gun. Pretty good at hitting those pie pans, too.
There underneath our lavender lilac bush sat a big, plump robin. I thought I'd like to scare him and see if I could make him fly from the bush. Although I never had been too crazy about any kind of a bird. Especially after seeing Alfred Hitchcock's thriller, "The Birds." So I pulled my shoulders back, pointed the gun. Set up my V mark, aimed and fired the trigger. I pulled the trigger, alright! That robin blew up and scattered into a million pieces, "Bullseye", I yelled, but not too loudly. My dad had happened to be walking up to the house from looking over his garden. When he wasn't working in it he would just stand there and admire it.
I felt a sense of panic and terror weigh down upon my small body, from the top of my shoulders to my shaking knobby knees. "What do I do now"? That was the question, but I needed a good answer and fast. I used the old reliable standby, I told the truth. I think my father could have already seen the obvious. This was another issue of many my parents instilled and drilled into me. To tell the truth and generally I did. I really was afraid not to. So, I told dad the truth. "I really just wanted to scare that old robin out of the lilac bush and didn't mean to kill him." I explained to him how I wasn't really very fond of birds, but I would never intentionally kill an animal of any kind. I told him how sorry I was, knelt down on my knees and cried. I swore to never do it again. My Father knelt on the ground beside me and what was left of the robin. I could see the destruction I had caused to this helpless creature, one of God's creatures and the disappointment in Father's eyes. My punishment of course, was to bury the robin.
Father taught me most of all to not take the little things which are most precious to us, our environment and resources for granted. To take a moment to be thankful for a winter sunset or the autumn's maple leaf. He told me how in life there were always consequences for the actions we take and that we should be responsible for them. That everyone makes mistakes but it takes courage sometimes to admit them. Then he hugged me and gave me a kiss as he wiped the tear from my eye.
Written by: Writer/Poet
M. Melody Tuli
__________________________________________________________________
"Father's Garden" was written in honor of my Father, the late Melvin R. Spader, July 11, 1971,
who inspired and gave the Gift of wonderful childhood memories to me.
HOT JULY DAY
Written by M. Melody Tuli
Non-Fiction
About 1,230 words
My parents have been arguing most of the day. I went outside to get away from all that noise. My mother called to me to come inside. “Your father would like to talk to you,” she said with a sharp emphasis on the word father.
I came inside the house, per mother’s request. I saw my father sitting in a chair in the living room. I see that he is pushing something back behind himself, between himself and the chair he’s sitting in. His mood and the tone of his voice, it’s a solemn, serious tone.
He is explaining to me that he loves me very much but he has to go away for a while. I question him where he is going, and have a perplexed look upon my face. “Where are you going daddy?” I asked. He said, “Daddy just has to go away for a while, but I’ll see you again real soon. Just always remember that I love you very much.”
I said, “Daddy can I go with you?” “Are you going to the store?” He said, “No. I’m sorry but you can’t go with me this time.” He hugged me like he’d never see me again, tightly almost taking my breath away and kissed me. Then he told me to go back outside and play.
We walked our bikes to the end of our yard. My bike wheel ran across the curb…
I heard what I first thought to be the sound of a firecracker. “Pop.”
I turned and looked at my mother. I said, “Mom, did you hear that? That sounds like a gun report.” She said, “Yes it did.” Where had I ever heard gun report? But that’s what I said. Not gun shot. I said gun report. I laid my bicycle to the ground and began to take a few steps towards the house. My mother immediately grabbed my wrist and said to me, “No don’t go in the house, the next one could be for us. We don’t know where that shot came from.”
We took our bikes and sister as we walked across the street to the neighbor’s house.
As hot as it was that day none of the neighbors ever invited mother or sister and I into their homes. Mother knocked on the neighbor’s door. She talked with the neighbor lady primarily through her screened door. Mother asked her if she could please call the police.
She told the lady we had heard a gun shot.
I wipe away the perspiration from my forehead.
I look upon my mother’s sunburned and bewildered face.
One gun shot…no, I guess I called that a gun report, funny.
Funny, damn thing sounded just like a firecracker to me.
Still to this day, over 30 plus years I can’t stand to hear a gunshot or
firecracker go off.
Well now we are waiting across the street…
We are just standing here, out here in the hot sun waiting.
I don’t know what the hell we are waiting for?
Here comes the S.W.A.T. team. They all scurry out of their van, like huge black piss ants.
They surrounded our house with guns drawn.
Their helmets cover their heads so they seem rather faceless, non-human
to me, almost moving in a robotic nature.
We’re still waiting over here. Are we invisible? Doesn’t anyone see us standing over here across the street in this God forsaken sun, baking?
We have been standing outside here all day long, my mother, my sister and I.
Mother’s face is beet red, all sunburned. She looks exhausted. There was a lost look of expression upon her face. I don’t know how much more of this heat we three can stand…
Swat team still peering into the windows of our house. Around and around and around they go. We’re still waiting. Their scheduled routine seems to go on for what feels like hours. Darkness falls upon our house and the people standing remain standing in place, almost like black silhouettes.
There was a darkness other than just the mood or the current surreal atmosphere that currently surrounds me.
Well here comes the channel 15 news van. Here comes the channel 21 news van too.
Here come people, neighbors and strangers I know I’ve never seen before.
Do I know all these people? Where the hell did all these people come from?
Oh, people, people, and people everywhere. Hungry aren’t they... It must be feeding time for all these hungry vultures.
The streets all lined up with cars, people, and police.
Ah, yes…the police, now that’s another matter.
I ask one of the police men who seemed to hold a superior stance of being the one in charge of things around here what was going on.
He just answered me, “That’s none of your business little girl.”
I sassed back, “I think it is my business, that’s my father in that house!”
He quickly replied after partially swallowing his tongue,
”We don’t know what’s going on here yet.”
I wasn’t allowed to tread pass the yellow tape that seemed to outline our house.
I ask my mother what’s going on…
She doesn’t seem to know either. Or if she does, she doesn’t tell me…
She’s not saying much.
I think I see an ambulance with their lights flashing and sirens blaring.
Also see a big black hearse somewhere in this abstract flashback.
Or maybe it was just the big black hearse; guess the ambulance was never called.
Think the S.W.A.T. team has entered into our house through the back door.
Finally!
Some young neighbor girl, young but older than I, asked if I wanted to go for a swim
with her in her pool. I thought to myself, sure I’m hot, why not.
I didn’t have a swimsuit with me so she graciously gave me one of hers to wear.
She took a shoelace and tied the back of the straps together so the suit would stay on me.
The cold water felt so good on my sunburned face. For a moment I had forgotten that my father had just placed a single bullet through his brain…
Guess that was the whole idea. Time stood still for me as long as I was in her pool.
There was some conversation between us, ideal chitchat for the most part.
I’ve forgotten over time now, who she was. What her name was?
But she most assuredly was my abiding angel that day.
By the time we had returned to the crime seen, yeah crime scene.
I’m hearing that key phrase a lot today. That has an ominous ring to it.
The S.W.A.T. team, how efficient they were. It took them hours to get into our house,
around, around and around for hours. Well good, they are gone now. The robotic black piss ants have left.
There are two men from that big black hearse; they are placing something, looks like a big black body bag to me, found out later that was my father, into their hearse.
There is some other man present. I can’t tell from which organization he’s affiliated with, guess his job duty is to hose down the garage.
I don’t ever think I’ll forget this hot July day.
Hotter than any other I’ve ever experienced or hopefully will ever again.
Written by M. Melody Tuli
Non-Fiction
About 1,230 words
My parents have been arguing most of the day. I went outside to get away from all that noise. My mother called to me to come inside. “Your father would like to talk to you,” she said with a sharp emphasis on the word father.
I came inside the house, per mother’s request. I saw my father sitting in a chair in the living room. I see that he is pushing something back behind himself, between himself and the chair he’s sitting in. His mood and the tone of his voice, it’s a solemn, serious tone.
He is explaining to me that he loves me very much but he has to go away for a while. I question him where he is going, and have a perplexed look upon my face. “Where are you going daddy?” I asked. He said, “Daddy just has to go away for a while, but I’ll see you again real soon. Just always remember that I love you very much.”
I said, “Daddy can I go with you?” “Are you going to the store?” He said, “No. I’m sorry but you can’t go with me this time.” He hugged me like he’d never see me again, tightly almost taking my breath away and kissed me. Then he told me to go back outside and play.
We walked our bikes to the end of our yard. My bike wheel ran across the curb…
I heard what I first thought to be the sound of a firecracker. “Pop.”
I turned and looked at my mother. I said, “Mom, did you hear that? That sounds like a gun report.” She said, “Yes it did.” Where had I ever heard gun report? But that’s what I said. Not gun shot. I said gun report. I laid my bicycle to the ground and began to take a few steps towards the house. My mother immediately grabbed my wrist and said to me, “No don’t go in the house, the next one could be for us. We don’t know where that shot came from.”
We took our bikes and sister as we walked across the street to the neighbor’s house.
As hot as it was that day none of the neighbors ever invited mother or sister and I into their homes. Mother knocked on the neighbor’s door. She talked with the neighbor lady primarily through her screened door. Mother asked her if she could please call the police.
She told the lady we had heard a gun shot.
I wipe away the perspiration from my forehead.
I look upon my mother’s sunburned and bewildered face.
One gun shot…no, I guess I called that a gun report, funny.
Funny, damn thing sounded just like a firecracker to me.
Still to this day, over 30 plus years I can’t stand to hear a gunshot or
firecracker go off.
Well now we are waiting across the street…
We are just standing here, out here in the hot sun waiting.
I don’t know what the hell we are waiting for?
Here comes the S.W.A.T. team. They all scurry out of their van, like huge black piss ants.
They surrounded our house with guns drawn.
Their helmets cover their heads so they seem rather faceless, non-human
to me, almost moving in a robotic nature.
We’re still waiting over here. Are we invisible? Doesn’t anyone see us standing over here across the street in this God forsaken sun, baking?
We have been standing outside here all day long, my mother, my sister and I.
Mother’s face is beet red, all sunburned. She looks exhausted. There was a lost look of expression upon her face. I don’t know how much more of this heat we three can stand…
Swat team still peering into the windows of our house. Around and around and around they go. We’re still waiting. Their scheduled routine seems to go on for what feels like hours. Darkness falls upon our house and the people standing remain standing in place, almost like black silhouettes.
There was a darkness other than just the mood or the current surreal atmosphere that currently surrounds me.
Well here comes the channel 15 news van. Here comes the channel 21 news van too.
Here come people, neighbors and strangers I know I’ve never seen before.
Do I know all these people? Where the hell did all these people come from?
Oh, people, people, and people everywhere. Hungry aren’t they... It must be feeding time for all these hungry vultures.
The streets all lined up with cars, people, and police.
Ah, yes…the police, now that’s another matter.
I ask one of the police men who seemed to hold a superior stance of being the one in charge of things around here what was going on.
He just answered me, “That’s none of your business little girl.”
I sassed back, “I think it is my business, that’s my father in that house!”
He quickly replied after partially swallowing his tongue,
”We don’t know what’s going on here yet.”
I wasn’t allowed to tread pass the yellow tape that seemed to outline our house.
I ask my mother what’s going on…
She doesn’t seem to know either. Or if she does, she doesn’t tell me…
She’s not saying much.
I think I see an ambulance with their lights flashing and sirens blaring.
Also see a big black hearse somewhere in this abstract flashback.
Or maybe it was just the big black hearse; guess the ambulance was never called.
Think the S.W.A.T. team has entered into our house through the back door.
Finally!
Some young neighbor girl, young but older than I, asked if I wanted to go for a swim
with her in her pool. I thought to myself, sure I’m hot, why not.
I didn’t have a swimsuit with me so she graciously gave me one of hers to wear.
She took a shoelace and tied the back of the straps together so the suit would stay on me.
The cold water felt so good on my sunburned face. For a moment I had forgotten that my father had just placed a single bullet through his brain…
Guess that was the whole idea. Time stood still for me as long as I was in her pool.
There was some conversation between us, ideal chitchat for the most part.
I’ve forgotten over time now, who she was. What her name was?
But she most assuredly was my abiding angel that day.
By the time we had returned to the crime seen, yeah crime scene.
I’m hearing that key phrase a lot today. That has an ominous ring to it.
The S.W.A.T. team, how efficient they were. It took them hours to get into our house,
around, around and around for hours. Well good, they are gone now. The robotic black piss ants have left.
There are two men from that big black hearse; they are placing something, looks like a big black body bag to me, found out later that was my father, into their hearse.
There is some other man present. I can’t tell from which organization he’s affiliated with, guess his job duty is to hose down the garage.
I don’t ever think I’ll forget this hot July day.
Hotter than any other I’ve ever experienced or hopefully will ever again.