Again, Lee, now eleven-years old, and Mike, his brother, two years his senior, ran through the second floor attic bedroom discovering Grandpa Anton was listening, they heard grandpa cursing and mumbling in the living room, then their mother crossed from the kitchen to the dinning room and they could hear her foot steps crossing into her bedroom opening up the upstairs attic door, usually it was left open so the heat could rise, but closed when the boys wanted the attic to be sound proof. Their mother [Elsie like a baseball umpire calling a strike asked would say: what is going on up there? It normally was a good pillow fight. Theyd back off slowly standing by the cold window, their beds on each side of the window, theyd be silent for a momentlooking at each others eyes(wanting to laugh but stone still) the chill of the wind seeping through the crevasses of the window had a bite to it: and then theyd start laughing when the coast was clear, when theyd hear her go walking a way, but shed leave the door open for assurances it would remain quiet
Lee and Mike, and their mother lived with Grandpa Anton, and they all knew who owned the house, Grandpaand quiet was a virtue on his list; as a result, Lee and Mike would run down the stairs to put their coats and hats on, to venture out into the arctic type Minnesota winter: through the kitchen to the pantry entrance where the backdoor was: grandpa would be pacing the living room floor, pipe in his mouth looking at his watch-glancing at the black mantel clock in the dinning room against the wall, a mirror overhead, as if he was going someplace waiting for the Sundays roast to be donehed follow the boys with his eyes looking above his pipe and knuckles as he placed his tobaccotesting to see if it was lit far enough down the hole of the pipe.
There was no dog to kick, so Grandpa Anton would kick the rug, as if there was not enough noise to distract him, but grandpa Anton was not one of thosewi dowers, who for thirty-years who liked sitting around too long; so, over and over and over hed walk his path from the front door that lead out to the porch, from the living room where the T.V. sat, to the entrance of the dinning room which was partitioned off only by a huge archway, as if there was a no-go zone. If Hop Alone Cassidy was on television, hed sit in his sofa chair in front of the it (hoping Im sure) the roast would not demand his assistance for a small piece of his time; yetunrepentantly the phone would ring, and on the other end would be an Uncle or Aunt of the boys, they all came over for Sunday dinner, all fifteen of themit would be sacrilegious if they protested (and didnt), and so theyd come, no matter how much snow, rain or sleet was forecasted for the day, other than a tornado, theyd come. It was best also, that they call, for the phone had a forty-call limit on it, and a party line to boot: that at times had double conversations [parties going on, as you d try to carry a dialogue with your callerit could be hectic.
Lee and Mike would be putting on their boots to tread through the heaps of snow the winter wonderland left the night before, for it was never graceful in allowing man or beast a pathway in that area of the country.
(Leaping backwards just a bit here.)
Grandpa now, who had been listening to the boys upstairsalso to the racket in the pantry, he waited patiently for the door to slam standing by the phone, hoping theyd stay outdoors for the day, the whole daygod forbid they come back before Hippie was over but now back to the phone; the boys could see Grandpa talking through the three windows (along side the house) as they walked by the dinning room, as he stood on the boarder of the living room and dinning roomthe-no go zone: the boys tightening their scarfs around their faces as the below zero winds and snow slapped raw frosted ice at their cheeks and foreheads, eyes, freezing every exposed piece o f flesh, even their hair, creating white frozen beards, numbing the rest of their exposed skin, while trying to creep around the edges of their hats up their pants legs, to chill whatever was left, and onto their earlobes, and into their ears, Old Man Winter, hoping to frost-bite the livingdaylights out of them.
Dennis Siluk's new book, Spell of the Andes, has some of his best poetry in it, you can see it at http://www.amazon.com or http://www.abe.com. He lives in Minnesota and Peru, and travels the world over, up today soem 683,000-air miles.
Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Short Story
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