2.
Before we get to Santa Day, I need to place myself, and you, in Cheyenne.
Rome had seven hills, Cheyenne two. The town poured down off the richer hill and the poorer one and spread out on a flood plain. The population rich and poor was about the same as Rome's in the time of Romulus and Remus–a rough thousand, give or take some dogs. Mom and Dad, my brother Jim and I lived on the rich hill, away from the flood plain. Our river drowned whites downstream in '34 and Dad didn't want anywhere close.
Western Oklahoma is made of hills, not much sweet water. Its character came clear that time we scouted home from Higgins, Texas. The prairie also features devils claws, arroyos, and overbearing sun. To face these facts, our scout troop had a "we" with which I never really felt at home. My true home was old lonesome me, on a hill above town. Perhaps I was caged there, with Mom. We must have been content. We never talked about the situation, didn't think about ourselves as caged.
And if home was a prison, it was a happy one. We got by with the parts assigned us, Mom had her outbreaks but they mostly ricocheted back on her. In the everyday her energy was smothering but sporadic. She was no good at exercising power, couldn't even give a proper whipping. Give us a proper whipping I should say. Jim and I were twins, though not in time or body. Dad's folks were tall and skinny and Mom's were short and stout. So Jim was short and skinny and I was tall and stout. He was of the Forties, of the old house at the bottom of the hill. I was of the Fifties and the new house. He came before the Japs bombed us and I came after we bombed them. Jim was as absent from my life as Dad, but still . . . he had lived it before me.
Dad didn't hold with whippings, but Mom was desperate, kept a razor strop in a bottom drawer. She couldn't wield it, but could talk about it. When threatening didn't help she got worked up and made (us) bend over and hold (our) ankles and ineptly thrashed at (our) butts(s). Dreading it was worse than feeling it.
Before we get to Santa Day, I need to place myself, and you, in Cheyenne.
Rome had seven hills, Cheyenne two. The town poured down off the richer hill and the poorer one and spread out on a flood plain. The population rich and poor was about the same as Rome's in the time of Romulus and Remus–a rough thousand, give or take some dogs. Mom and Dad, my brother Jim and I lived on the rich hill, away from the flood plain. Our river drowned whites downstream in '34 and Dad didn't want anywhere close.
Western Oklahoma is made of hills, not much sweet water. Its character came clear that time we scouted home from Higgins, Texas. The prairie also features devils claws, arroyos, and overbearing sun. To face these facts, our scout troop had a "we" with which I never really felt at home. My true home was old lonesome me, on a hill above town. Perhaps I was caged there, with Mom. We must have been content. We never talked about the situation, didn't think about ourselves as caged.
And if home was a prison, it was a happy one. We got by with the parts assigned us, Mom had her outbreaks but they mostly ricocheted back on her. In the everyday her energy was smothering but sporadic. She was no good at exercising power, couldn't even give a proper whipping. Give us a proper whipping I should say. Jim and I were twins, though not in time or body. Dad's folks were tall and skinny and Mom's were short and stout. So Jim was short and skinny and I was tall and stout. He was of the Forties, of the old house at the bottom of the hill. I was of the Fifties and the new house. He came before the Japs bombed us and I came after we bombed them. Jim was as absent from my life as Dad, but still . . . he had lived it before me.
Dad didn't hold with whippings, but Mom was desperate, kept a razor strop in a bottom drawer. She couldn't wield it, but could talk about it. When threatening didn't help she got worked up and made (us) bend over and hold (our) ankles and ineptly thrashed at (our) butts(s). Dreading it was worse than feeling it.