Certain Memories

That's where the bar was. Whenever there was a blood drive, Manuel would tell his customers that they couldn't get a beer unless they gave blood. A civic-minded man, Manuel. Out there is where my grandfather farmed cotton. Some of the neighbors said they could hear him yelling at my dad from far across the fields. No wonder my dad wanted to escape although in later life he made the place out to be an Eden. As a child, I thought it had more of a Grapes of Wrath ambiance. There was a weather-beaten barn from which my older brother, pretending to be Superman and with a towel pinned to his back, jumped, only to learn that he was lucky to land in a pile of cans and to break only an arm. That was how the stories always went. They'd have a theme along with a minor fact which was far more interesting. A pile of cans? Who has a pile of cans? I recall their accounts of how great it was to swim in the irrigation canals but that was quickly followed by a casual mention that occasionally a dead dog might float by. They'd be off on another idyllic aspect of life on the farm and I'd still be with the dead dog.

There could be a larger truth in all of this. The big events may not be as vivid as the details. She wished him luck and touched his shoulder and all that he really remembered of that day was the touch.