Spitball Army

Mother is 81 today; her grandson’s 18 Friday. I suggested they swap their nearly identical ages. She liked that idea; he wouldn’t.

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Card is titled: “Patio of Pio Pico Mansion, Whittier, California.”

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We sit in Mom’s open garage on rollators, like old folks. Deaf Guy across the street belches periodically; we laugh, then wait.

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My Dad taught me: The best part of drinking bottled Coke is the tiny cokie particles collected in the bottom, making the last swig the best.

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Wearing my late father’s t-shirt: comfortable, soft, not at all like his sun-leathered skin. His smell has been washed out of it.

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My Gramma used to bathe her poodle in Listerine. #mygrandmaiscool #andeccentric

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Approximate playing time: 79 minutes.

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Granny’s kitchen smells of hot, fried bean empanadas. The dominant scent at Gramma’s: the Listerine with which she bathes her dog.

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I. Great Uncle did stunts in silents and shot a man in a cowboy one-reeler, then vanished to the hills like Roy Earle in High Sierra. II. His nephew, my father, could quote all of Fred C. Dobbs’ lines and shared his suspicious tendencies. Perhaps it was genetic. III. Dad called him Hobart Humphrey. I’d […]

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The toy gun from a Tijuana cart gets its cork removed on the long ride home. He sits behind Mom in the car, taunting: “Pop! Pop!”

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