Actually did karaoke. Private room was an acceptable alternative. Plenty of firewater was on hand to ease cracking ears and throat. It occurred that I was the only one able to sing When Doves Cry. The firmaments of spank shook deeply that chilly winter's dark.

Floating on a grey barge of Amsterdam presently. Smooth ride. She makes the head go sciue sciue. Which is also the name of a pasta sauce. Yes indeed. I have zero clue as to what that means.

The closing of the partially uncomfortable unshackling of dusty memories is at hand. A hade's dragon rests it's wings in this tale. For at one time, this person was thought fondly of. The brittle scales of ignorant childhood fell to the dirt some moons ago. Much water has run it's course through the Mississippi since I last was recognisable to her. All take heed. The coming is not a happy tale. Introducing Grandmother, AKA Doris.

Remember that bit on Sesame Street when four boxes would contain four items? One was not like the other. Doris was not like the others. A void shadows behind her, clouding history. Never once was anything ever said of her coming into this world. She could have been brewed in a cauldron for all I was led to believe. Only from knowing her maiden name have I inferred on my own her heritage. Most likely of Norwegian bent. Long faced, long fingered, long footed creatures wherever they sprang from. Most likely raped and pillaged their way across the Atlantic. Let's hope Vikings were involved.

She used to read me Dr. Seuss and Curious George books. Quickly I was well enough on my own to handle the deciphering of letters, and contently snuggled in comfortable chairs, legs kicked back, smiling through children's literature. Definitely an enabler for my itching book fetish. Dude, with other figures of maternal authority insisting books were to be set aside, preaching that kicking dead grass around be of more import, I was diggin on plowing through pages. She did give me that.

Not a supremely inspired cook. Cemented into the apron of Nineteen Fifties Betty Crocker, poodle skirts and bobby socks remained her seasoning. Vegetables often boiled beyond recognition. Exotic herbs and spices such as cumin, tarragon, basil, garlic, all timidly approached. Wide range of flavor senses confusing for her. Few standouts. The yorkshire pudding with beef gravy was indeed extremely salivating. Chocolate confections done well. Before I knew chocolate is poison for my respiratory pathways. Hooray. Ice cream tricks.

While I was allowed to join in the making of gingerbread man cookies, Rice Krispy treats, and dinner rolls. The ice cream tricks were shrouded in kitchen mysticism. A polished gilded platter would appear, shimmering from the dining room archway. She actually would sculpt a miniature carousel of animals made from ice cream with an array of soda jerk extra's for decorations. Like chopped nuts for lion fur. It was indeed incredible. It made me giggle.

The train always rolls around the bend. The dazzling smoke from the coal burning engines fade behind the curve. The gathering of knowledge did not bode well for the relationship of Doris and I. She was displeased with my removal of the wizard's curtain.

Anyone who's had a casual time near me can tell you, I ain't exactly a politically correct sort. However, distasteful jokes fueled by earnest bigotry leave stones in my stomach. I was pretty much over the nigger, kike and chink shaggy dog stories and one liners before prepubescence. Wanted to shove my plate of mashed potatos and candied yams in her face when my sneers failed in stopping the foul noise bubbling from her hole. Hateful sad bag of skin. Every instance, exposure from her opinion fed tumors growing behind my eyes coloring the way I viewed her. She is part of the problem.

Nostrils blaring she describes the ordeal of dealing with japs at her country club. "What gives them the right to play on MY golfcourse? Dirty japs, and taking their sweet time too, like they were royalty or something, noses in the air." Something about two bombs wasn't enough fails to gel together in my squinted brow recollection. So, lemme get this straight. White people never murdered teams of people in one fell swoop to fit their own desires? Oh right, they had just cause. Whitey is the chosen righteous despot. His dick is allowed to forcibly enter any sphincter he sees fit since all others are just mud people. The shouting of whitey's parables a nightly occasion.

The end of your line will be a good and jolly thing. The addition of your voice should silence sooner than later, if mercy and justice wish to support their cause. Racist cunt.

Nowadays, Doris wouldn't know me from a peeled carrot. Alzheimer's has turned her into a wrinkly mean two year old. She is housed in an institution well suited to handle the calamity. I will never visit. Even if a sliver of the former respect and admiration she once held still remained in me, her brain is incapable of connecting the dots on my face. Fortunately, said sliver does not exist. She doesn't know who I am, and I'd love to never remember who she is ever again.