Father and Son

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He had adopted the boy. He said to him – “So, this is your first day,” he said. And the boy who was sitting on his new chair at the table said, “Yes, sir.” He answered,

Important edits. First edited version.

 

Father and Son. He had adopted the boy. He said to him – “So, this is your first day,” he

said. And the boy who was sitting on his new chair at the table said,

“Yes, sir.” He answered, “Well let’s try to make the best of it.” He was

fifty and divorced. He had adopted the boy out of something in him.

 

“Let’s go to the park.” “OK,” the boy said, plucking up.

 

“Look at those,” he said. “They are really big,” the other said. Then

some root beer and hot dogs.


“You ought to be in bed about… well what time do you think.”

“Seven would be okay for a school night.” A Sunday.

“Agreed,” the man said.

“You’ve got a couple of hours. We'll have some dinner in about an hour. You’ve got free time till then.”

“OK,” said the boy. “See you then,” the man said. The boy took this as a cue that he could go.

“See you,” the boy said hesitantly.

 

Boy thought, man thought.


Boy freeing himself of thoughts through trees, over the fences, glimpses of the lake. And it was

quiet and the trees were pine needles and he went to smell the sweetish woodsy smell of sap on the bark.

 

The man freeing himself of his thoughts by cooking and moving around the kitchen, still musing less thought.

 

“Try not to remember,” the man self-talked.

 

“Try not to remember,” the boy self-talked, looking out at the lake, the

intense blue-emerald water curving around the banks of the shores and

the cliff-sides, cut-in with bushes and trees at intervals, and many

glimpses. This was the first time the boy had experienced such as these

sights and their feelings.

 

The next weekend they went to the man’s small A-frame cabin of one

head-ducking and body-bending space and towards the center man-high.

It was a two hour drive. It was quiet there. There was an outhouse and

a large permanent make-shift grill. The grill was always laying over the

rocks which made the grill.

 

The man had come here several times in one summer of great and

bitter-sweet enthusiasm as a boy. He had been winning races by that

time. Running. Distance running. Exhaustions, some strange ability in

mental control over the exhausted body. He tried but he could not comprehend

or understand how he had done it anymore.

 

He bought the place from Bob Servenak's granddaughter who was

the girl he had fallen in love with that summer and whose grandfather

had taught him to use the grill and the propane and to shoot the thirty-odd-six.

 

 

He taught the boy these things. The boy learned to shoot the thirty-odd-six and

became an excellent shot first off learning to minimize the awesome kick to the shoulder

when shooting the thirty-odd-six.

 

The years passed and the boy had taken to calling him Dad and the

man had taken to calling him Son. They were father and son within

about two years.

 

One summer the growing boy met a girl there. He met her there each summer

until the nine month separation became too much for him.


His father died in a fishing accident when the boy was twenty-one and

in college. The young man kept the A-frame but did not visit it. He made

sure it was kept-up well by paying a man in the main and nearest town about

twenty-five miles away. He had the man send him pictures of proof of maintenance

by email every few months.


 

 

 

 

Original

Father and Son. He had adopted the boy. He said to him – “So, this is your first day,” he

said. And the boy who was sitting on his new chair at the table said,

“Yes, sir.” He answered, “Well let’s try to make the best of it.” He was

fifty and divorced. He had adopted the boy out of something in him.

“Let’s go to the park.” “OK,” the boy said, plucking up.

 

“Look at those,” he said. “They are really big,” the other said. Then

some root beer and hot dogs.

 

“You ought to be in bed about… well what time do you think.”

“Seven would be okay for a school night.” A Sunday.

“Agreed,” the man said.

“You’ve got a couple of hours. We'll have some dinner in about an hour. You’ve got

free time till then.”

“OK,” said the boy.

“See you then,” the man said.

The boy took this as a cue that he could go.

“See you,” the boy said hesitantly.

 

Boy thought, man thought.

 

 

Boy freeing himself of thoughts through trees, over the fences, glimpses of the lake.

And it was quiet and the trees were pine needles and he went to smell the sweetish

woodsy smell of sap on the bark.

 

The man freeing himself of his thoughts by cooking

and moving around the kitchen, still musing less thought.

 

“Try not to remember,” the man self-talked.

 

“Try not to remember,” the boy self-talked, looking out at the lake, the

intense blue-emerald water curving around the banks of the shores and

the cliff-sides, cut-in with bushes and trees at intervals, and many

glimpses. This was the first time the boy had experienced such as these

sights and their feelings.

 

The next weekend they went to the man’s small A-frame cabin of one

head-ducking and body-bending space and towards the center man-high.

It was a two hour drive. It was so quiet there. There was an outhouse and

a large permanent make-shift grill. The grill was always laying over the

rocks which made the grill.

 

The man had come here several times in one summer of great and

bitter-sweet enthusiasm as a boy. He had been winning races by that

time. Running. Distance running. Exhaustions, some strange ability in

mental control over the exhausted body. He tried but he could not

comprehend or understand how he had done it anymore.

 

He bought the place from old Bob Servenack's granddaughter who was

the girl he had fallen in love with that summer and whose grandfather

had taught him to use the grill and the propane and to shoot the thirty-odd-six.

 

He taught the boy these things. The boy learned to shoot the thirty-odd-six

and became an excellent shot first off learning to minimize the awesome

kick to the shoulder when shooting the thirty-odd-six.

 

The years passed and the boy had taken to calling him Dad and the

man had taken to calling him Son. They were father and son within

about two years.

 

One summer the growing boy met a girl there. He met

her there each summer until the nine month separation became too much

for him.

 

His father died in a fishing accident when the boy was twenty-one and

in college. The young man kept the A-frame but did not visit it. He made

sure it was kept-up well by paying a man in the main and nearest town about

twenty-five miles away. He had the man send him pictures of proof of

maintenance by email every few months.

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