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Eight

EIGHT

Wednesday

I didn’t realize until breakfast when my sister Amy asked what I’d done with the blueberries that I’d forgotten to stop by Mr. Trung’s on the way home from fishing Saturday. Dad had already left for work so Amy felt the freedom to call me several choice names, questioning the number of chromosomes I’d been born with. I basically told her to “shove it.”

But I knew how much Dad loved blueberry pie. Eager to keep him in a good mood so I could attend that night’s showing of The Creature from the Black Lagoon at Raedeker Park, I finally told Amy very kindly to “shut your cake-hole, I’ll get the damned blueberries.” She then threatened to tell Dad I’d said “damned.” I countered with a threat to tell Dad about the older boy she’d been dating on the sly from Webb County Community College (Amy was only a junior in high school). That pretty much sealed everything up in a tense truce, so I left the house that morning feeling pretty damned productive, indeed.

So damned producti
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