Sunday, December 2, 2012

breakfast with Daddy

No photos today.
Sorry but all three cameras at my disposal were put on strictly video. (coming soon)







Earlier last week.

Dad, we have to go to the 4H breakfast. It's this Saturday at 7am. All you can eat pancakes for $5.
Surely they don't give you syrup and butter too?
I think so. And coffee and milk and juice.

No. He performs his best disbelief.
Sure do. I nod with a we could eat those people outta house and home vengeance.




During family dinner.

Dad, remember we have to go to breakfast Saturday.
This Saturday?
Yep. Mom'll be at the beach.
Okay.






Friday night.

He asks me, Are we still doing that breakfast?
Yes. Remember. 7:00am. You coming to my house? You need me to pick you up?
I'll come there, but we're going in your car.
Okay.





Saturday morning.

I call him at 6:50am. That's late for me.
He has to call back. He got up late.
We talk about time all the way into Quitman.
Get there, pay our $10 and walk in.


This is the multipurpose building but not the one I remember. The place where Old Yeller jumped on Blacky and Jason had to turn around right there in the middle of that arena with it's wood shavings on slick floor and tell me, his sister, to get my cow off his.

It was embarrassing.





The ladies are set up in the kitchen, cooking like crazy, instructing all the kids to serve and take the coffee pot around and see if anybody needs some. It was beautiful.


Daddy tells me about his time with the 4-H and how he was a judge, how he was one of four boys taken out of town to some judging finals and he remembers their names and the car, how it was new. He remembers the calf scramble, how he was the only boy taken to Meridian where he picked out the steer in a judging before. Then he and those other boys who'd done the same all got in a pin with those steers. He had to run and claim his with a rope.

He sticks a finger up across my line of vision says, Look at this.

His finger is bent at the end. I smile.
Daddy is marked heavy from his life.
He was, is still, a country boy.








Our voice changes when we get home and recognize the folks around us.
It's something I have noticed.


I saw a good many people yesterday but you'll never believe the storyteller I saw.
It was John Gary, son of Wilder. (did I even spell those names right?)
Will someone call him and ask, please, please Mr. John Gary Riley would you send, tell, spin a yarn so Shea, Patsy's daughter, can publish it?







Today I am so very grateful for these people surrounding me. Thank you, thank you, people.


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