by the Doryman *
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Every blasted time I see a black Lab, I think of Dinah. She was an Iowa farm dog, about my age, way back there in the ’50s. I would see her on occasional Christmas holidays when my parents and I would visit her master, my Aunt June. Dinah could perform two tricks. The commands were: ‘Sittest-the-back-end-down, Dinah’ and ‘lookest-thee-out-the-window, Dinah.’ She was as dependable as the comfort of the living room’s wingback leather chair and the scent of the nearby oil stove.
Every blasted time I smell diesel exhaust, I am reminded of the cozy winter nights of my childhood when I would drift off to the droning voices of loved one’s stories. My memory of those times is like a gallery of Norman Rockwell paintings.
Now there are more and more blasted times. One thought leads to another, and they often end up somewhere in the past. Ah, the past. It’s edging out the future in my mind’s eye as I grow older. I suppose because there is so much more of it.”
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* Source: Bulletin Board, St. Paul Pioneer Press, Aug. 31, 2016
Every blasted time I smell diesel exhaust, I am reminded of the cozy winter nights of my childhood when I would drift off to the droning voices of loved one’s stories. My memory of those times is like a gallery of Norman Rockwell paintings.
Now there are more and more blasted times. One thought leads to another, and they often end up somewhere in the past. Ah, the past. It’s edging out the future in my mind’s eye as I grow older. I suppose because there is so much more of it.”
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* Source: Bulletin Board, St. Paul Pioneer Press, Aug. 31, 2016
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