Biznasty first. Services for the cranial realm's archive banks. Must to remember to contact that gruff voiced individual again to confirm what exactly sort type of mandatory initiation in Midtown is needed to work for his firm. If it's a sell, it's a bail for me on that. No schoolin thanks. Me am smart enough. Tricksy salestrolls.

Onto what was fortold by the last version of spanky juice. Granpa. Orv to his buddies.

Grainy tanning black and white of him proudly mounted on his delivery cart. Pulled by a fine beast. Fearsome creatures are needed to drag gallons of the chalky white liquid here and there. He dons a cap. Military crispness of his gaze. Dairy soldier.

First photograph I ever saw of Orv that took place far before my cognizance. Masterfully holding onto the reigns. He would take me on milk missions with him in his waning existence of milkman. Cavernous tin box on wheels. Clunked and clamored along snow and ice peppered pathways. Dem roads wuz ruff. I took particular interest in the customer manifest. One lady purchased four limeade cartons. Cottage cheese and sour cream perks arriving towards the homefront. People sure do like them cow squirtins up nort.

From what has been offered and gathered, I know his folks were German immigrants fresh from Ellis island. Dirt poor. Gramma said when she first met him he didn't own any underwear. How could romantic sparks not fly?

He was in the farm leagues for professional baseball. Same thick bratwurst fingers I've inherited benefitted Orv with some wicked change ups. Knuckleball pitch his most deadly. Conscripted service in the south seas truncated any possible career in pinstripes. Impish meanstreak would come out when he would play catch with me. He'd do this ridiculous wind up that looked like he was about to perforate your palm with stitch edged leather. Releasing on the backswing. Ball harmlessly fumbles up in the air behind him. Giggly chuckles dancing in his throat. Repeat performance ad nauseam.

Slight sadist. Wounds that take long to heal from the battlefield can lash out and harm others. I saw him take a few glances at me. I wasn't exactly the most coordinated runt in the litter. Stood up in his flatboat one mild June morning. Shook about more than he took to liking. Eyes squared up like a squid and it appeared as if his body shifted to whack me into the drink. He exasperatively huffed and gave me a free look. Tard moves always grant a free look.

He mellowed out quite a bit since all the ladies left the nest. Ma has two sisters, no brothers. Had rough farmer hands. Fisherman's hands. Meaty. I could see those handhams puttin a hurtin on your butt. Never swatted me. Not the case for the ladies three.

Veterans of that bloody hell were given the sideglance pass. Shell shocked survivors tend to be twitchy. Especially if they also have a wonderful psyche gland problem. Chemical imbalance don't mix well with bombastic display. Just not equiped to thrust past the scars, not to itch those devil urges.

Thanks familial tree line that ran straight up my medulla oblongata. Generation after generation of fine vintage freak. Let the public enjoy.

He had this disturbing but somehow mostly comforting body waft. Like dried fruit candy made from beer and peanuts. Cylinders of charcoal filtered domestic warm beaver piss. He cycled through the cheapest Wisconsin selections with glee and ferver. Meister Brau, Milwaukee's Best, Red White And Blue Beer, Hamm's, Pabst, Schlitz, occasionally Point, rarely Miller. He had a constant lager halo emanating from his entire frame. I thought it was awesome. Again, everyone enjoy the freakdom.

On one summer family reunion. Reunions usually took place in the summer as the nordernly climes wuz most condusive to chillin and shit, and also that Ma and me had birthdays three calendar base units apart in July. This one in particular, on one of Orv's beer runs, mid grillin picnic, he thought the best joke in the world was purchasing a case of Budweiser for the affair. Kept giggling and shouting "City beer, hey look everybody city beer!" For the benefit of us who simmered away in the perditious anvil of St. Louis. The ragin big city that Oshgosh was not. It was kinda funny. If I had started lantern sparkin by eight years old it would have been fucking hilarious. Fo'rilla.

He built quaint handsome birdhouses. Adorned all points of height within his property borderlines. Creeping a few of them on the next plot, owned by his wife's brother anyhow. Satisfied wrens would flock for miles during the warm months. Their song would invite you to leave the sheets every dawn.

One of Orv's drinking buddies brought over a smoked pike. Caught too many of them buggers off of the bridge. Couldn't shovel the stuff down fast enough before it would spoil. Wrapped in tinfoil, thundering oasis shimmers distoring the air above it. Potent smelling package. Watched for as many minutes as I could stomach as he and Baby Sis snacked that fish away. I was not of the aquarian palatte friendly in my runt days. The scaly stuff made my nerves bunch up.

I remember him telling me to make sure I don't wind up in any porno movies when he found out I was going to film school in New York. With the structure of my life as it has unfolded so far I believe I haven't been recorded doing the bump nasty. Decent possibility that that's false or will be one of these days. Luckily, Orv's ability to take in stimulus of the deviantkind is nil. Dude would need a six pack if he ever witnessed any of the regular spanky kaleidoscope.

Still kickin. Pharmaceutically fighting off seizures, and dealing with the big casino somewhere in his bowels, bladder I think. Been a few since I last futiley attempted to engage Granpa in conversation. As far as I know, we're cool. And that's just cool with me.