For You, My Brutha

Remember that day in the middle of summer when we decided to be cowboys for the day?  I don’t remember putting much thought into my wardrobe, but I seem to remember you wearing a bandanna and a hat.  We threw mom’s old braided rugs over the back of dad’s sawhorses and used some new found rope as reins to guide our horses through the range of the backyard.

As afternoon fell we became bored and sat in the driveway to shoot the breeze, while idly picking at the loose gravel embedded in the driveway.  What began as cheap sandstone and shale, suddenly became gold.  Remember running to get dad’s hammers and screwdrivers and starting to mine for more?   After about an hour we had done some pretty good damage to the driveway and decided we should probably fess up to dad.  He laughed and said he never really like that driveway anyhow, and we could keep on digging.  I remember listening to corny  country music and giggling with you about the lovesick lyrics.

Dinnertime came with mom bringing us beans and hot dogs in pie tins, we ate by the light of your flashlight and stared into a hole that was big enough for me to sit in.  As you put dad’s tools away, I ran inside to get blankets and pillows so we could sleep under the stars, just like the old timers used to.  I lasted about an hour before the damp and fear of the bats I had read about earlier that week forced me to run inside.  You ran after me boasting that you could have stayed out there for hours, but preferred your bed that night.

The next morning dad busied himself by filling our mining shaft with cement while you and I sat on our sledding disks in the shark infested ocean of grass on the front yard.  Our only chance of survival was the rope we used to tie our disks together, and of course, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches packed by mom.

Thanks for the memories.




3 thoughts on “For You, My Brutha

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