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or read his story below…
PULLEY BONE WISHES, DRUMSTICK COMPETITIONS
Oh boy, I hope I hope I hope I get to get the only thing worth getting today.
I’m sitting here at the tiny dining table in the tiny dining room adjacent via swinging door to the tiny kitchen at my childhood home on Eastwood Avenue at the fulcrum of the tiny town of 1940′s Tuscaloosa.
My younger brother Ronny and older sister Barbara and handsome father Tommy and beautiful mother Frances are about to dine together this Sunday-after-church afternoon.
The fragrance of fresh-fried crunchy-breaded chicken blends with all the other fragrances of the hour. Steaming mashed potatoes. Hot corn bread. Carrot sticks. Gravy. Catsup for newly-shelled black-eyed peas. Salt and pepper for boosted flavor. Hot pepper for Dad. And maybe, just maybe, sweeter-than-sweet lemon meringue pie made from scratch.
This magical and flavorful event pales in comparison to my lust for one big drumstick. Just one.
It’s more than desire. More than mouth-watering anticipation. More than hunger. We are always well-fed, no matter how scant the income, no matter how high the food prices. My parents find a way to shield us kids from the realities of scraping by. The drumstick will make everything feel right, feel secure.
Mother is always the last to sit down, for she is captain of the ship. She backs into the dining room from the kitchen, pushing the door behind her just enough to slip through, carrying a steaming platter of chicken.
I’m at the ready, hoping to get first dibs on a drumstick.
Everything is negotiable. Should Sister Barbara decide she wants first choice, she will get first choice. The privilege of being eldest child. Should my father be of a mind to have a drumstick, so it shall be. Should Mother want a drumstick—wait, Mother never gets the drumstick because she waits till everyone has chosen, then meekly selects from what’s left. Being youngest voter, Ronny takes whatever he’s served, at least till he becomes older and more assertive.
Today, Dad serves himself a thigh. Barbara grabs a drumstick. And, miracle of miracles, I get one, too! Life is good. Life would be even better if chickens came with five legs.
The feast is talkative and noisy and filled with laughter and signifying.
But one more ritual must be observed. One more punctuation mark must be applied to this happy mythology.
Who get’s the pulley bone?
Lunch-before-dessert will not be complete until two of us get to make wishes, then tug apart the pulley bone. Today, it’s Barbara and yours truly.
She holds one half of the slippery arch, I hold the other. We close our eyes and make our silent wishes. We pull hard. The pulley bone cracks.
One of us has a wish fulfilled
© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed