A Typical Letter ((Entering Old Age) (A letter, memories of growing up; 1950s))

A Typical Letter
((Entering Old Age) (A letter, memories of growing up; 1950s))



Advance: After sending my brother (Mike) a picture (1950) when we were young kids, in St. Paul, Minnesota, in the backyard, he was six, now is sixty two, and I was four at the time, now sixty, his response, and mine, between St. Paul, Minnesota and Lima, Peru, where I live part of the year (2-7-2008, just simple talk, and memories, between two brothers, hope you enjoy it):



(Mike: after receiving the picture; 2-6-2007) “What a memory that is. Sure was a much simpler world back then. Now we are at the short end of the stick.”


(Response by Dennis, 2-5-2008) “I think sometimes, if you've lived life to its fullest, it’s enough at 60 to 80 (years of age); I think about dying and how great it might be to check the hereafter out, and meeting mother. That short end of the stick, you talk about can be pretty long sometimes, that is, if you can't live life to its fullest. I have a large picture in our house on the wall in Lima, like the one I sent you, and several others. I got a picture of you and me standing by your first two wheel bike, at Arch Street. I can't remember those days to well, but I remember Kiddy Corner somewhat (a boarding farm we stayed at while my mother had to work during the week, and she’d come on the weekends and pick us boys up and take us to her apartment, then we all moved into our grandfather’s house in 1951 or ’52). Anyhow, as I was saying, or going to say, I remember playing with some Indian blankets in the backyard, at 109 East Arch Street; your haircut, that Mohawk style, the barn next to our yard, or Grandpas property. Also, the hill I set on fire (in the backyard) and the pigeons Grandpa had in the basement; the candy gar above the basement steps, the dry ice in the ice box, in the kitchen that led down to the basement, and Aunt Betty running to the bathroom sick from drinking; hiding under the bed so mother would not spank me—and you and I in the center bedroom talking at night, and mother coming by and shutting the door, telling us to get to sleep. I also remember that gas stove (natural gas that is, we had in the corner of the living room. My dog, the one Grandpa put a rope around his neck, and tied it around the cloth line, and one day he got free, and hit by a car, I cried I think for a week. A little dog I had, I could put in my hands—I also keep in mind—who fell from my hands and broke his legs, or a leg; you and I walking to St. Louis school; in the winter, down that steep hill, down Jackson Street; your paper route; and so forth and on; just memories, so many, many memories.” Dennis