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Patricia Wellingham-Jones |
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Mean Old Sam Mean old Sam, you croon shoving his pushed-in face away from his fetish, feet. We sip our tea, regard with jaundiced eyes the sad specimen before us. A purebred Persian, Sam has the manners of a hog, long-banished from inside the house. In our hot valley summers he looks like a flat-faced rodent, shaved down to his almost-bare pink skin. In winter his lush white fur draggles with mud and other unmentionables. Still, Sam has his place in the family and with that in mind, one frivolous weekend you painted his cat-igloo the same earth-peach as your home, trimmed his door the same forest green painted daisies and roses and lilies all over his house, creating for Mean Old Sam his own little Eden. Settling for Second Best Trounced in a local election, newly widowed at 65, she wraps her white braids in a coronet around her head. Takes her sturdy farm wife body, basic farm wife skills, to The Peace Corps. She teaches women in scattered huts, on dirt floors, in ten-story buildings the hello-goodbyes of English with some tips on hygiene she can't keep to herself. For years we read of her adventures-- complete with photos as proof-- on page 2 of our daily paper every month. She wanders the souks of Central Asia, prowls the cities of Seoul and Delhi, lingers in Kyoto temple gardens, sips tea with her hosts on the steppes of Kazakhstan. Swallows, with a smile, food she never imagined. She doesn't spend much time mourning her lost election, the lost farm. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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