BackwaterBlog

I’m in Pittsburgh.  It’s Sunday.  Me and son Ben are doin’ the NFL football thing today, along with 4 of the more agressive proponents of Steeler Mania you’ve ever perchanched to meet.  They are attempting to be kind to me, as I support their opponent in todays contest.

Not to be a crystal ball guru, but I think I can already predict the score.

Beer 240, Me 0.

Hi Pam!  Sorry you’re stuck in Bawl’more!

Now, see?

 The entire country of France can take off for a vacation.  Take off the entire month of August and nobody much gives a hoot.

So I figgered to one-up them and take off August, and a bit of September.

But it’s getting out of hand now, and there is much to tell.  My little muse man who lives so far away is tapping and prodding me.  It’s impossible to tell if he knows that he stirs the words, pokes the mind of a Grandpa six hours to the south, or why.  Ally traveled up there a couple of weeks ago and brought back images and sounds.

There.  A little man behind bars.

How he moves me sometimes.  To talk and write and think.  He does do his best to move me, without knowing the why or how about it.  Funny old/new man that he is.  It is a sadness mixed with a hope and endless red wagons and runny noses, that.