Basements/Pittsburgh
My Mom was a bit of a snob. She's over it. My cousin, brother, and myself were driving past Pap and Grandma's old house and they said: Who would want to live like this?
Hell, I would. Would do plenty of harvesting for rights to the old shanty with a million dollar basement needing tobacco purification and the vibes of a cold Iron City being cracked open along with live radio and a junkyard dog, nice lady in the kitchen cooking pot roast with pure butter, spice, and crisping carrots.
I was told that the poor are skanky, yet now I know better, for if they have purpose it provides pure promise.
So, I desired to be a writer--the best in the galaxy. Who is to thieve that from me? Would see the journalists with their pewter flasks full of fun juice for inspiration--being a writer allows you to have a few beers on the job--afterwards u go home and pop garlic followed by hot or iced coffee.
Pap mentioned someone was a thief at work and got heckled: What were they stealing, the coal?
A man who was our Patriarchal vine and did more than merely provide--as well as honest, kind, smart, and strong. He could cook, garden, maintenance, foreign languages, and endure a stubborn German wife. He's gold to me.
