| Subject: Re: Remembrances |
Author: Beth
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Date Posted: 04:58:05 10/23/05 Sun
In reply to:
michael
's message, "Re: Remembrances" on 15:43:33 10/21/05 Fri
Mike and I running from the barn to different cars to get to the house because it was raining so hard, and finally getting there to find that mom had just taken chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.
Jody going out in a storm to pull brand new beagle puppies out from under one of the sheds so they wouldn't drown.
Katy and Jody dressing me up in all that chiffon and taking pictures (I never saw those).
All of us laying on mom and dad's bed, listening to George Carlin, Bill Cosby, Jesus Christ Superstar . . . also listening to The New Christy Minstrels, Aerosmith, Cat Stevens, Uriah Heep, Marty Robbins, Roger Miller . . . etc.
Turtle races.
John's mangled ankle.
Joe always laughing at dinner and mom sending him away from the table (while she laughed too), until he stopped spewing potatoes.
Going to Dad's office and being fascinated by everything, just because it was Dad's. Getting to play with the big plotter thingy and that spaceship game on the computer, where you had to figure your fuel and stuff or crash and die.
Girls whistling at the boys in their tuxes when we stopped to get gas on the way to John's wedding.
John's (and later Phil's) awesome attic room.
Taking turns playing with the airbrush gun thing that Dad brought home, even though it was freezing out there in that shed.
Walking "around the mile", Mom, Katy and Jody singing "Kumbyah", and "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot", among other things.
Mike and Joe playing truth or dare, which involved running across the pasture naked, apparently.
Mike and Joe fighting in the living room, knocking chairs over and making me promise not to tell.
Phil's icingless birthday cakes.
Dad's dead spider impersonations.
Mom's high pitched tickle-tortured shriek.
Beagle puppies and kittens, everywhere, all the time. And those damn goats. And goat's milk . . . ewww.
I could go on and on, but it's incredibly late (or early). So, next please . . .
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