Spitball Army

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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I remember reading this letter when I first received it in my inbox three years ago. Everything in the room went silent then, as if in the thrall of some cinematic effect, and my focus was completely on the text.

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Approximate playing time: 78 minutes.

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One of my buddies has a novel way of keeping up his correspondence. He boasts at least 6 letters a week to his wife. That’s all very well and good, but I don’t like the way he does it.

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Approximate playing time: 80 minutes.

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Approximate playing time: 80 minutes.

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From a box of things, the long-sleever fits. I wear it to work, musing that I’d rather have Dad present than his perfect shirt.

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We talk about my cats, 15 years old, aged, sickly, how I’ll handle their certain fate. We talk: she, my 77-year-old mother, and I.

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I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to extend my Christmas greetings in any way other than by a letter. Then they handed out these cards.

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