Wednesday morn

Indian mounds, those burial grounds, seated high on the hill above the lake in Sanatoga , Pa. We had a Boy Scout campout there one summer afternoon. That was when I got the moniker "Squirrel." Boy's Life magazine did me in. They told of cooking meat by burying it under the campfire. My Mom gave me some meat and I buried it under the campfire despite the scoutmaster's protests. I put it in a glass jar. Boy did I believe in Boy's Life magazine. The meat is still there, food for the dead indians I guess. Everyone else roasted hotdogs. They pissed on the fire over my meat to put it out. The incident made the rounds and I was the "Squirrel." I have never believed one fucking thing a magazine claims since.

At my high school 30 year reunion Harold, better known as "Jackie" called me "Squirrel." He had a lovely wife and two sons. Single as I was (and am) he figured I had nothing. He was almost right. But I had my health then and I was trying to write.

At that reunion, a woman who was madly in ove with me was given a surprise 25 wedding anniversary party by her two adoring children. Her husband is a prince of a man. I was elated for them; there was a woman I didn't mess up. She is in the minority. Enough.

This morning the sky is pale blue; rain in forecast but it hasn't come yet. I walk to the corner. The Oscar Meyer weiner wagon is parked in from of the TV studios. I remember that too. Now they are two wagons. One is a small hotdog.