My Cardboard Balcony

Disgusted At His Dinner by Belinda Roddie Disgusted at his dinner, Rodrigo threw a heaping forkful of gooey mess at Sandy's forehead. As she screamed and clawed at the sticky mass stuck to her eyebrows, her mother scolded Rodrigo for his bad manners, but he stuck out his tongue, shut his eyes, and shook his head from side to side. "No!" His father tried to make him eat the mix of oddity on the tiny plate. But the boy pushed his father's large hand away. Then I stepped in, furious, frustrated, and flung my glass of milk right in his face. "There," I growled at him. "I have more to spare if you don't clean your plate right then and there!"

Born and raised, grown and grazed, champion of baseball in the olden days. Shovel in hand, banjo in a band, manual labor plus accountant's shorthand. Tried many things, wore many rings, all from girls with many different flings. Swung on a tire, started a fire, became a kid again just before I retired. Read a thousand books, caught an old babe's looks, had a son at seventy-five, and what energy that took.