Watching the Track Types on the Olympics Last Night

…I was reminded of a magical vacation we took in the early 60’s, when Bingley was just a Brussell sprout. He developed chicken pox while we were there. In answering a customs officer’s question about the origin of the puling infant’s pustules, mother described them as the result of “swarms of mosquitoes taking tender baby bites”. They let us on the plane back to New York. Only afterward did she find out about the machete that Grinch had received as a parting gift from the gardener and tucked ~ unsheathed ~ into his golf bag. How the other customs guy shoved his hand down into the bag and came up with all his fingers is a mystery to this day.
Mountain Man and I, being all of 6 and 9 or so years old, had the best time. For instance, the garbage service consisted of one affable native, an ancient donkey and a well worn but servicable cart with a couple drums lashed to the back. Such as the times were, he offered to take the children and mother duly dumped us in the cart to help him with his rounds. EVERY OTHER DAY. ( I would happily have handed ebola off to the first stranger in a wheeled conveyance, had one wanted him, but none did and now you wouldn’t dare. That’s a shame.) (That you can’t trust the cart man, I mean.) (Not about getting rid of ebola. What kind of mother do you think I am? He only gets given away if they bring him back.) (Pffft. And don’t they always.)
So wonderful childhood memories sparked by the Jamaican uniforms.
And now I can’t get the damn song out of my head.

5 Responses to “Watching the Track Types on the Olympics Last Night”

  1. Lisa says:

    Holy shit, how many kids are IN your family?!
    I need a family tree.

  2. Only four, but we make enough noise to be, like, nine or ten.

  3. Lisa says:

    Mountain Man, you, Bingley, Crusader?

  4. Give the girl a Dunkin’ Donuts creme filled!!!!
    Speaking of family, did you make it down south this summer?

  5. Lisa says:

    Make it chocolate, please. And no, not this summer. There are some rumblin’s from the ‘rents, though, about a Xmas visit to Ye Olde Gulf Coast.

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