Bad Moon Rising (Halloween Hallow)

Bad Moon Rising (Halloween Hallow)

There is something about Halloween that conjures a deep yearning for the saccharinity of childhood. The smell of damp leaves that have fallen leaving the once lush trees barren only accentuates the urge to look back. As a candy-craving tot (and as an adult), I loved and looked forward to dressing up for All Saint’s Eve. My earliest memory is rushing straight home to stuff myself inside a hot as the Hades of Hell plastic Dingbat costume, complete with a suffocating mask. My parents thought it better for me to sweat bullets while trick or treating than to come home with a face full of smeared make-up. Less mess for them I guess, never mind my almost dropping dead in a ditch from heat stroke in the height of October. Dummies. What am I saying? I probably begged them for the costume. It is possible that it was on sale so cost was a determining factor thanks to frugal Father Mine, or it was the only one that would fit me. Take your pick. Memory is a funny thing.

Halloween belonged to me and Way Cooler Big Sister. Even though she was probably too old to trick or treat, she was responsible for taking me around the neighborhood. My Mother entrusted her with her overzealous youngest, it was more like a chaperone deal for her, but for me, it was thrilling to go running all over Cow Bay with her, alone without adult supervision. I always felt like I was getting away with murder. Pardon the pun. Without fail, no matter my costume, Way Cooler Big Sister always dressed as a bum. She fashioned her last minute disguise from old clothes, towels, and bed sheets; smeared her face with gunk and pulled a nubby winter hat down over her ears. When I was Ding Bat, when I was a pirate, when I was a punk rocker – her? A bum. One year, to the delight of My Mother, I went as a bum too. Zero dollars spent!

It was the same every year. Come home from school, practically vibrating with excitement. I’d come through the side door and Way Cooler Big Sister would have newspaper spread all over the kitchen table for pumpkin carving, such a gloriously ghoulish ritual. We’d spend a little time dragging the nub of pencils into the orange flesh to create our designs and then she’d cut a top on each and we’d start cleaning. The gooey pumpkin guts felt cold and criminal squishing through our fingers. We cackled our way through every disembowelled pumpkin we incised. Once our pumpkins were finished it was time to eat. My Mother would always make something quick and easy on the day, Kraft Dinner to share, tomato soup and grilled cheese, something we could gobble down in a hurry. It was hard to sit still at the table, waiting for my supper, I was always so anxious to get dressed up. Way Cooler Big Sister and I shared the massive and brightly lit bathroom mirror while we readied ourselves. Her reflection was heads taller than mine but I gleefully stood beside her and put myself together, watching her transform herself into the same boring old bum from the year before. No matter, I loved that tradition. We’d stop for parental inspection, pose for a picture, grab our pillow cases, and head off for the main event – junk! 

Walking to the first stretch of houses she reminded me to watch out for eggs. Back then, you had to be on guard for cars speeding by hurling warm eggs at random candy-seekers. Luckily, we were never struck and thank flaming Beelzebub we didn’t because she would have gone bat shit on their asses. She pretty much knew every hooligan in town. That might have saved us. Back then, when you knocked on a neighbor’s door a morsel if you didn’t say trick or treat you got diddley squat until did. By the end of the night, we were sick to death of uttering the phrase but we pillaged the whole bay stretch until our cases were so heavy you’d think we were dragging a dead body behind us. I’d usually get weary on the way back home and plead with the Village Hobo to carry my bounty. She’d refuse until I agitated her enough. I was always relieved when she grabbed the pillow case from my weakling arms. Her huffing and puffing in annoyance all the way home was worth it.

The best part of Halloween isn’t even the long arduous task of collecting the treats but getting home, scarily flushed, stripping out of your costume, and collectively dumping our loot, spread all over the living-room floor. We’d sit cross-legged and assess our sugary glut and trade each other for favorites. I traded her licorice for Tootsie Rolls. My Mother hovered hoping to score a few candy bars. I always gave her my caramels much to Way Cooler Big Sister’s dismay. Once I got a full size Mars bar and I gave it to her. One year while organizing our stuff I popped a candy kiss in my mouth. It was so tough and gooey that it sucked a loose tooth right up out of my gum. I could feel the air hit the empty pocket and fill with saliva. It scared the living daylights out of me so naturally I swore. My Mother was not pleased. Way Cooler Big Sister joked and asked me how I planned get money from the tooth fairy if it was stuck in a wad of candy. I told her easy, I’d just set it on my night table. She shook her head and told me if it wasn’t under my pillow I wouldn’t get any money. Me, the gullible goblin, thought long and hard for a second and then proceeded to nibble all the candy from around the tooth. She busted out laughing and stopped me. She said she was just kidding, “And by the way, there’s no such thing as the Tooth Fairy.” Evil Sorcerer. It is bad enough she took Santa and the Easter Bunny from me, she couldn’t leave me the Tooth Fairy!? Happy friggin’ Halloween.

And, without fail, once we were tucked in good and tight, tummies aching from one too many samples of our rampage, she’d relay the story about the Ouija board. The same Ouija board they all hid in the furnace room from Father Mine who despised them and would brain anyone stowing one away in any house of his. I used to hide in there now and then if I got myself in a bit of hot water. I’d see it there, out of the corner of my eye, in its dilapidated box with the broken corners, daring me to come closer. No friggin’ way. Not after what happened the time Way Cooler Big Sister and Rock Star Brother brazenly used it to summon the dead.

They were in our basement in Cow Bay, sitting in the middle of the floor near the pool table. Way Cooler Sister said the room was dim and quiet when the each placed their trembling fingers on the heart-shaped wooded planchette. Way Cooler Big Sister said Rock Star Brother was terrified of becoming possessed by a demon but was curious enough to risk it. Supposedly, they asked a series of questions and the planchette moved under their fingers to signify yes or no answers. And then, according to Myers Family Lore, the two small basement windows lit up with violent flames and the face of a burning girl appeared. Way Cooler Sister said it scared the living shit out of them. They packed it up like bats out of hell, put it back in the furnace room where they found it, and never spoke of it again. I know for certain Way Cooler Big Sister carried a belief and a fascination for such things but I don’t know if Rock Star Brother does. Even after the experience he had in the living-room late one night.

Rock Star Brother, while still hanging at home, came home late from a gig. He took a beer into the living-room with him, sat down in the rocking chair next to the bay window, turned on the TV to unwind before sleep. Staring aimlessly at the TV, it took him a minute to realize the curtains had started blowing up and almost straight out by where he was lounging. He moved to go shut the window and then froze. Our bay window back then didn’t open. There was no air source to lift the curtains in such a way, no vent, heater, nothing. In a jolt of holy shit and disbelief, he powered everything down and put himself to bed. I bet you ten bucks if you asked him about it now, he either wouldn’t remember or admit it happened if it did. He almost shit his pants. I remember him re-telling it like it was yesterday, the wide of his eyes, talking with his hands. Way Cooler Big Sister asked him if the window was on fire. He cut his eyes at her, the expression spoke louder than words. She laughed and laughed and laughed.

***

Since Halloween is tomorrow, I thought I’d use it as an excuse to spin another little tale for my creative non-fiction project. I miss Kelly at Halloween. She decorated and loved passing out treats to the kids and often mingled with the neighbors. Save my kids, as in the ones I look forward to, I hate passing out candy. I can’t explain why but it has never been my thing and I didn’t have to worry so much about it because she was down at the door willingly. Hannah will be here tomorrow so I told her if she’s staying the night, she was in charge of passing out the treats except for my favorite Littles.

Stay safe this Halloween. It’s supposed to rain in this region but I hope it is a mere drizzle at least for the kids.

In propinquity,

Nic

Puppy Love

Puppy Love

I was always a hopeless romantic. Despite my questionable ongoing youthful and haphazard appearance, I believed I was destined for my one true love. For big love. A sweeping romance for the ages. I looked far and wide. And, by far and wide I mean across my classrooms or the soccer baseball field, a few doors down, in the other room even. I trusted that my person, would be able to see beyond the short and stout package to my true essence, in my deep and beautiful soul.

I came by these unrealistic starry-eyed notions from watching soap operas with my Mother. Primarily ‘Another World’ and ‘Texas’. I hung on every elegant word that dripped out of Iris Wheeler’s chops and was swept up in the love affair between Mac and Rachel Cory. I lived for escaping to Bay City for an hour every day after school. And, when we finally caught up with the rest of the world and had cable installed, I added ‘General Hospital’ to my soapy repertoire. It didn’t’ stop there, I graduated later to ‘Santa Barbara’ and ‘Sunset Beach’.  Imagine it, your plump protagonist, nestled in a single bed, whispering sweet nothings into the side of a pillow before pretend-French-kissing it’s non-existent lips. Practice. It was practice. For the real thing. For my one true love. Embarrassing but oh so true.

I had my first date in 1983. I was ten years old. I should also mention, Father Mine chaperoned. It was kind of a prerequisite since either of us at that tender age could drive or had the monies to fund such and outing. I shoved a brush through my thick black mess of hair, bangs fully to the left side, hair-sprayed hard, stuffed myself into a white ruffled peasant blouse, a red corduroy suspender skirt and set off sure it was going to be the most romantic day ever. Father Mine and I picked Crush One up at his trailer and we set off to the movie theater in Penhorn Mall. It was a Sunday. We had matinee tickets for none other than the epic space opera, ‘Return of the Jedi’, ready for all things Luke Skywalker and his struggle to bring his father, Darth Vader, back to the light side of the Force. Father Mine teases us endlessly after we settled into our middle of the theater seats with buttery popcorn and ginormous Cokes, “No funny business when the lights go down. I have my eye on you.” I wanted to strangle him with heavy chains in the very same way Princess Leia strangled Jabba the Hut. In a cute twist of cheeky fate, Crush One grinned at Father Mine and said, “Both eyes? Or just one?” I didn’t know if I wanted to die or marry him. Father Mine chuckled and turned his attention then to his own popcorn treat. The movie was a soaring romp through an alternate universe anyone with a pulse was invested in. We chattered excitedly about it all in the backseat of the car on the way to the dinner portion of our outing. Of course, me, the sap I was, waxed poetic about the movie’s bitter end where, as the defeat of the Empire is celebrated, Luke spies the spirits of Yoda, Obi-Wan, and Anakin watching over him. Crush One, to my dismay, wasn’t moved. He was more fired up about how Luke severed Darth Vader’s prosthetic hand. It’s always about the lightsaber duels with dudes. It didn’t take long to drive from the theater to Steak and Stein. Father Mine’s choice not ours. I sat beside Crush One on one side of the booth across from Darth. I confidently ordered two of a kind, medium rare, derby style, with fries and a root beer. Crush One shyly said he’d have the same. While Dad ordered, I sat, with a goofy grin on my face, swinging my legs since my feet didn’t quite hit the floor, pleased as punch to be sitting with my future husband. That’s until we were spotted. By a classmate. Sitting two tables over with his family. He did a double take when we made eye contact. My face fell, ashen. His shone with the most cunning of grins. We were caught. Crush One and me kept our date a secret from our friends at school. And now, we’d been found out. The next day, Monday morning at school, we were subjected to endless ribbing, “… sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G …”.       Part of me wanted to die but the hopeless romantic in me was swooning all over Oceanview Elementary School. It turns out he wasn’t my person. Our dalliance fizzled out before summer started.

The most romantic moment of my adolescence happened in my 5^th Grade classroom. Weeks prior we did an art project that involved irons, crayon shavings, and wax paper. We made butterflies. They peppered the cold white cement walls and they were lovely, all tailored to our personalities. They were easy as pie to make but the line-up for the last step, the ironing part, under strict supervision of course, took eons. To make the butterflies, we cut out their body frames and wings from thick black construction paper (I used to love the sound of heavy scissors cutting through that particular kind of paper), judiciously cut four oval-ish pieces of wax paper to fit into the windows of the wings, two pieces for each, and sharpened our favorite color crayons, the shavings melted inside the two pieces of greasy paper under the duress of the iron. Once they were all assembled, glued, and dried, we each got to hang them up. I positioned mine next to Crush Two’s. Mine, shined expertly on display, made of the brightest pinks and yellows and sky blue. Crush Two’s stood vigil, more subtle, a little darker alongside. Fate would have it that our Most Beautiful Teacher assigned the task of taking them down to me and Crush Two. We could either go to the library with the rest of the class or stay behind and dismantle the butterfly display to make room for our new pending art project. He jumped at the chance to skip the library and I leapt at the chance to be alone with him. He climbed up on the ladder while I stood at the bottom keeping it steady. Mostly in awkward silence, he peeled each creation from the wall and dutifully handed them down to me. When he arrived at mine, he stopped for a second, studied the colorful wings, and said, “Yours is really pretty.” I near fell over taking the ladder with me. My face blushed and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my inflated face. And then, an unexpected romantic gesture, he shed his down from the wall, put it in my hand and said, “You can keep mine. With yours.” Agog, I barely got my response out, “As in FOR keeps?” He nodded. You know I did. I may have slept with it under my pillow once or a hundred times. I still have it packed carefully away in my school treasury book and grateful I do. Crush Two passed away the following year. I was sure I’d marry him even though he liked other girls better. I carry his sweet face on my keys to this day, my young heart dedicated always to the memory of him.

Crush Three was the icing on the cake. Rock Star Brother paraded countless long-haired musicians in and out of our house for as long as I can remember. But none quite had the impact of Crush Three. My Mother was even smitten! A willowy yet confident blonde-hair-blue-eyed Adonis screeched into our driveway one day, hopped every second step to the side door, and knocked. I ambled to the door, disheveled, still in my frumpy pajamas, with severe bedhead, and stopped dead in my tracks. This would be high school me. Older, bored, somewhat apathetic – and yet, when the Hunk of Burning Love that was Crush Three appeared, the hopelessness of romance reared its tricky head, “Hi … ya … like is your brother here?” He lowered his cheap sunglasses to reveal the universe, every damn drop of Jupiter, in his eyes. I stood there like a dummy, jaw on the floor, speechless. My lack of sound prompted him to shoot one of those ‘uh hello’ looks down at me. “So? He here or wha’?” All I could manage was a nod. He pushed past me and headed down the basement stairs I was pointing at, still catatonic, completely overcome by his utter beauty. I heard him ask Rock Star Brother what was wrong with me. I didn’t hear the answer, but I can tell you right here and now, I was head over heels in love. Like, to the moon and back. Crush Three basically moved into our house. I made a point of never being seen in my pajamas again. I even started to apply a bit of make-up in a shameless effort to appear more grown-up. I faked sick for school so many times to hang out with him in the basement to watch day-time TV, take silly drum lessons, and gab until my teen heart was content. I made him cake, and lunches, my Mother made him spaghetti dinners, and desserts. We wanted him to stay forever. He was funny and warm and could really hammer the skins. Mind you, at that time, he was playing R&B standards, but when he practiced or goofed off, he was a powerhouse. One day we were sitting on the chesterfield in the basement listening to music and eating oranges. I hate peeling oranges and I always peeled his for him. He’d pop the juicy wedges in his mouth and then smile, using it as his makeshift teeth. I’d laugh too loud and too long, longingly to which he said the cruelest words I’d never heard, “I just love you, you’re the best little sister.” Sigh. My heart sunk deep into my ankle socks. No amount of attention, Revlon, or culinary delights would ever make me anything more than a little sister in his eyes. I still loved him though. I couldn’t help myself. I was happy in his company. He treated me like a person instead of just someone’s kid sister. The July after my nineteenth birthday I walked into a bar he was playing at. A matinee. And, he’d taken on the role as lead singer. I brought him a cupcake since I remembered it was his birthday. He freaked out. “Are you SURE you’re old enough to be in here!? OH MY GOD! Serioussssly?!” He hugged for a long time. He was more hyper than I remembered, even a little weathered, or maybe weary. Nevertheless, he was tickled to see me. I stayed awhile. Ordered a beer. Watched him dominate the stage. Crush Three passed away too, would you believe, ten years to the day, of Crush Two. Uncanny. Crush Three lives in another small corner of my heart still. His picture hangs on my rock wall in my writing room. His face upturned and silly. Just like I remember.               

***

I feel like at some point I will return to this small piece and add to it.

I was choked up while writing it. Thinking of these people in those places and all the feels I believed were real.

I’ve never been lucky in love. But I still hope to be. I believe. Despite evidence to the contrary.

In propinquity,

Nic

Radio Gaga

Radio Gaga

Brother Bear dispensed the first and only spanking I ever received in my life. My memory doesn’t serve me well enough to know the misdeed I committed but I can tell you this, it was heck of a wallop. It was my only biff in the bum. Ever. And, it was with a belt he whipped off from around his waist. This is the single reason, as the runt of the litter, I was marginally terrified of Brother Bear. And yet, I did everything I could to be near him. I’d often quake in my bootie slippers when my Mother would ask me to go down to the basement and tell him his Kraft Dinner was ready. I’d take every step very carefully, very quietly, push open his bedroom door, enter the lair, and pray to gawd I made it out alive. Brother Bear, it seemed to me anyway, slept more than my other familial counterparts. His basement room, which at some point, we all occupied, was dark, slightly damp, and difficult to navigate without some semblance of light. Brother Bear slept in a grand Captain’s bed which he’d often be half hanging off, one hairy arm, one burly leg, dangling. On tippy toes, I’d carefully inch closer, whisper his name and murmur ever so softly, “Um … wake up now.  Your … um … Kraft Dinner is ready. Mom … um … said to come eat.” Without fail, nothing. Not a peep. My next plan of attack, gently tap his fuzzy forearm with the tip of my pinky finger, “Kraft dinner is … um … done.” A slight stirring and then silence. As a last-ditch effort, I’d hold my breath and nudge him harder. Third time was always a charm. It was always an unwelcome disturbance and he’d howl, “Whaddya waaaant!?” And, in a terrified, high-pitched voice, I’d say it one last time, “Kraft Dinner is ready!” I ran. All the way up the stairs like a bat out of hell to where my Mother was, spooning the yellowed pasta into a Tupperware bowl. I swear it was his only food group, Kraft Dinner. I said, watching him scarf down the whole box, as a little kid might, “You’re soon going to LOOK like a cheese noodle.” My quip was met with an indistinct grumble and an icy glare through his dark glasses. I mean, don’t shoot the messenger, I was just repeating what I heard my own Mother say a million times over. It’s a good thing never told him when he’d drop stray bits of KD in his dark prickly moustache. No doubt, I’d meet the continued wrath of Brother Bear. But, in those days, any attention from him mattered. For example, even though I knew he’d never take me with him to the race car track, I begged and cried. I admit, it was a pathetic way to make him acknowledge my existence. And if I’m being honest, I really thought he’d cave and take me. One of the reasons he’d give was that he had no room for me. Even if he had to stow me in the trunk, I’d have gone with him in a split second.

Back in the day, Brother Bear was the proud and rebellious owner of a certified gas guzzlin’ shaggin’ wagon. It was a sight to see in our driveway, a hickory brown Chevy van complete with yellow fog lights at the helm. Its interior was something right out of a seventies porno, paneled walls, carpeted, with a bed, a mini fridge, a souped up stereo system, and a CB radio built right into the consol. I can’t pretend to know what kind of shenanigans went on in that rig, but I was besotted. Whenever it would be on display in our yard, with the side door open, and no grown ups around, I’d boldly approach and peek inside. I’d drink in every detail and run my hand across the shag carpet and daydream about being big enough to be bad. That I was hip to the true reason there was a bed in the back of a van. I loved when he’d get the CB fired up and hot hits of the day blaring from the speakers. I’d have given every pair of bellbottoms I never owned to be in the know. The ostensible star of ‘The Dukes of Hazzards’, the 1969 Dodge Charger received sixty thousand fan letters in its run, I’m willing to bet money Brother Bear’s Brown Betty would have received one or a few back when.

Speaking of stereos, Brother Bear had a serious system in the same downstairs bedroom I dreaded entering to wake him for his Kraft Dinner meals. The bigger I grew, the less he was home. It worked to my advantage because it was down there, in the Brother Bear bedroom, the music geek in Little Me, thrived. To be clear, I was one hundred and fifty percent not allowed anywhere near his bedroom when he wasn’t home (or when he was for that matter unless it was Kraft Dinner time) let alone listen to his music. But I did. Every chance I could. I wasn’t a defiant child but rather enamored. Lured by the most excellent cabinet/shelf he built, taller than me, leather faced, to house his stereo. I’d lurk around whenever he appeared like he might be going out, for the most part, once he left, he was gone a long while, even until late at night after I was already in bed. I’d stand vigil in the living-room window, watch until he pulled out of the driveway, wait a few minutes in case he might need to come back. When the coast was clear and I knew I was safe, I’d bolt down the basement steps lickety split, throw on the lights, and expertly set my songs to play. Of course, those were the days of 8 track tapes, the coolest things ever. I’d typically start with Dr. Hook’s ‘Pleasure and Pain’. I’d sing every note ardently into a hairbrush and anticipate the record’s best romp, ‘You Make My Pants Want to Get Up and Dance’. Believe me when I say, my stretch slacks were just a dancin’. And not well. Clumsy stomps, awkward herking and jerking, but oh my, the joy! I also couldn’t (and still can’t) sing my way out of a paper bag so kudos to my Mother for enduring the endless caterwauling and thumping bass under the kitchen floor. I rumbled a few floorboards with my version of the chicken dance while belting ‘Cover of the Rolling Stone’. It was in that room, I was first introduced to The Eagles, Elton John, James Taylor, Fleetwood Mac, and as mentioned, Dr. Hook. One of the benefits of being the youngest was the exposure to every genre of music. Father Mine flooded the house with old country both on the radio and with his guitar at his many kitchen parties, Bookend Brother powered my ears with the heavy metal of Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, and Motorhead, Biggest Little Sister enjoyed the disco laced sounds of the Bee Gees, Way Cooler Big Sister preferred Bay City Rollers, and of course with Rock Star Brother there was everything else in between from Billy Squires, Saga, ::gag:: Rush, and right up to Honeymoon Suite and of course Corey Hart etc. It was a smorgasbord in our house, and it was awesome. You don’t want me to describe, in detail, what I was like while emulating Ozzy on ‘War Pigs’.  I’ll leave that to your imagination only to say my devil horn throwing and thrashing air guitar …er… may not have looked cool, but sure as heck felt pretty rad.

I should also mention that it was in Brother Bear’s room, in front of his stellar stereo, that I developed a debilitating case of stage fright. While crooning with the one and only Marie Osmond, Way Cooler Big Sister, unbeknownst to me, recorded my performance. Upon discovery of this act of severe betrayal, I cried and begged her to erase it. Instead, she ran upstairs and played the whole thing, start to finish for Rock Star Brother, Most Beautiful Girlfriend, and whoever else was in the house. It wrecked me. From then on, until forced into public speaking for Junior High English class, I gave up performing and visited the music with headphones. It’s important to note here though that while I may have gone pretty much mute, my dance moves were still objectionable. I could have won many lip-syncing awards back then if there were ever such a thing. I lost my voice, not my passion. Thankfully.

There were many close calls in getting caught. This one time, in the throes of ‘Hotel California’ he came home. I was in mid-belt of the song’s sonic climax when I saw his feet coming up the side stairs. “… mirrors on the ceiling … pink champagne on … ack …” My cheeks blazed, I was sure I’d be caught red-handed and chased all the way to the Cow Bay Moose. Banished forever. It may have been the quickest I ever moved to date. I shut er’ all down and scurried my tub o’ lard scarce. I hid in the furnace room and tried to catch my breath. A scene right out of ‘Friday the 13^th’ I tell you. I just knew that if he found me, I’d be up by the scruff of my neck. I stayed hunkered until I heard my Mother call me for supper. Ten thousand times, the last time she called out, she used my full name. Uh oh. I skulked upstairs to the kitchen table, eked into my usual chair, and prayed Brother Bear wouldn’t put his steak knife in my ear. I caught his eye by accident and almost cried. But, to my utter surprise, he gave half a smile and asked me to pass him the salt. He didn’t say a word. Nada. Zilch. Didn’t acknowledge I disobeyed his direct order to not enter his room or touch his stereo, anything he owned for that matter. In the moment, I felt like a pulled off the biggest jewelry heist ever and got away with it, scot free. The fact of the matter is, Brother Bear’s bark was always worse than his bite.

It’s true, me and Brother Bear didn’t spend a lot of time together when we were both younger. It wasn’t until he got married and had kids that we grew to know each other. I spent a lot of time with his cubs while he and Mama Bear ran errands and went on dates. I was always so proud to childmind. And nice for them, eh? A young sibling equaled a built-in babysitter, payable by chips and pop! I kid. It was a responsibility I took very seriously and was grateful for the time spent and the trust, that as they say, is everything. I often joke now that Brother Bear is my other sister. He’s like an old woman, you get him talking, you can’t shut him up. I’m okay with that though, it’s making up for lost time and the stories he has are worth waiting for.

***

Another piece of creative non-fiction down!

This time for my big brother, Ken.

I love you.

In propinquity,

Nic