Saturday, November 2, 2013

Overheard in a taxi driving from Newton Corner to Boston

Taxi Driver:  I'm one of 11 kids . . . my parents were always fighting!

1 comment:

  1. eleven, that is a number one usually forgets or on which one places no great significance, unless, of course, it is a number that keyed into a world not to be forgotten. eleven...wasn't that the number of people we filled our car with on a sunday morning, early in the late years of the '40's, after, of course, we had cleaned out all of the pipes, wrenches, mallets, screwdrivers, wiring, and any other object that could attach to grit and evidence the work of the week of our father? we, then, unceremoniously covered over both the front and the back seats with a thin cloth blanket dedicated to the task of separating our sunday go to meeting clothes from the work of the field. let me see, now, there were the three children, grandma, and grandpa, mom and dad, and oh, don't forget aunty mary whom we picked up on the way, affording all of us children and adults, presumably, as well, the opportunity to shift away from the bones of children plundering the soft tissue and muscles that even then went charlie and hoarse. that was eight. but, really, as a child, it felt like eleven. however, no one ever fought. We were all too busy holding our breath.