That River

You don’t realize it until you are old. Older.

That all those years of homey witticisms were mostly cadged from Herodotus.

He shaped the stories. Mixed in gumbo and racial prejudice. Played fast-and-loose with the Indians. Real and Native American.

The first because he could and the second because they were blood.

Honey, you some Dr. Pepper? He had a way of drinking it that more resembled rodeo riding than drinking. He shook the bottle hard with his mouth already over the opening.

Fizz shooting he called them. But it looked dangerous to you.

You drank your soda pop like a regular lady–with a straw and an even draw.

He is in the middle of the story about a local minstrel who ran afoul of some nefarious shrimpers. They got drunk and ornery and demanded he pay more for his trip back from The Island to Point Comfort.

Made him put his tuxedo on. Then made him jump overboard anyway.

But you know that man made it home? Said dolphins nosed him all the way to Palacios.

When he told the local justice of the peace, it took him three hours and a trip to the local doctor to convince them it was true.

Pirates, girl. This world is full of pirates.


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