Dad and The Duel

DOC:  You look tan.

LRE: Huh?

DOC: Okay; I’m lying. But I do know that you went to St. George last weekend so I thought I’d PRETEND like you got a tan there, too.

LRE: You’re really funny, doc. Really.

DOC: Don’t patronize.

LRE: Don’t make fun.

DOC: Good to see we’re starting on such a positive note.

LRE: You’re in charge of this therapy session, mister.

DOC: Darn right I am. Let’s talk about your dad today then.

LRE: Okay.

DOC: I have just one question to ask.

LRE: This will be short then.

DOC: Not likely; I know how you have a story for everything.

LRE: That’s just because conversation is more interesting that way.

DOC: It’s not a bad thing; it’s just a fact of Larrie’s life.

LRE: Fine; what’s your question?

DOC: What’s your favorite childhood memory of your dad?

LRE: That he called me BIRD BONES.

DOC: That’s your favorite?

LRE: Oh, by favorite do you mean what I liked most?

DOC: You don’t know the meaning of the word, favorite?

LRE: It’s a really difficult word to understand.

DOC: You’re not a very facetious person, are you?

LRE: Never.

DOC: Just try to be a little serious and answer the question correctly.

LRE: Am I being scored?

DOC: I can wait until you decide to answer.

LRE: Right. Then my vote goes to when my dad would read poetry to us before bed. My favorite poem was “The Duel.” I even quoted the first stanza when I tried out for Seven Brides for Seven Brothers in junior high: The gingham dog and the calico cat side by side on the table sat; was half past twelve and what do you think? Not one nor the other had slept a wink. The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate appeared to know as sure as fate there was going to be a terrible spat. I wasn’t there; I simply state what was told to me by the Chinese plate. Etcetera.

DOC: I like it.

LRE: You should—it’s a good one. He read it out of the book, 101 Greatest Poems. Good book.

DOC: Thank you for giving a genuine answer.

LRE: Sure nuff… sometimes, I’m genuine. Just not usually on the ol’ blog.



  1. Dad read you poetry? Dad never read us anything…at night at least. He would read us the scriptures in the wee hours of the morn as we would cower under our covers. Which, if I may, I would like to blame the blasted early morning paper route for my bad sleep habits nowadays. That job took the life and soul out of me. Favorite memory for sure.

    “Bird Bones” eh…do you know how much crap I took for “Rabbit”?


  2. @kaakun – I call everyone mister… or something

    @jarv – hey rabbit… I’m going to start that again. and sorry you’re not one of daddy’s little girls – no poems for you


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