by Terry Hargrove
When I was young, summer always began with Memorial Day. Since I have a few moments between filling out applications, I thought I would enlighten the world with this sad but true tale of chickens and summer madness.
When we were kids, my brother and I had to sacrifice one week each summer to visit dad’s folks. That’s what we called them: dad’s folks. We did not look forward to the trip, because things are different out in the country.
In their middle years, dad’s folks were baked by the Great Depression, and they came out of that furnace overcooked, tough and hard. They used an outhouse, a decrepit structure I refused to enter. When people ask me why I’m so anal, I assure them there’s a reason. They drank well water that smelled like sulfur. They didn’t have a television, a car, a book, or anything else that could provide escape. Continue reading