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Trickles
Floods and Other Disasters That Shape Our Lives
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“I don’t know what to think. Everybody’s gone wacky up there!” Roger declared, standing in the doorway.
I threw down the Barbies in my hands and drew towards him into the kitchen where Mom stood wearing an apron and oven mitts, pulling a cake from the oven.
Since smartphones were not present during the years of my youth, I spent most of my childhood looking forward to Roger’s visits, where he’d come bounding up the front steps of our house to enlighten my family about what was going on up the road. His amateur journalistic prowess covered everything from urgent gossip to what someone said in passing that was either so funny or ridiculously stupid, he found a deep compulsion to share it with my parents.
I watched as he stood there, a beer can dangling from his right hand, secured only by his thumb and ring finger. He used the two free fingers in between to pinch a burning cigarette, displaying openly to the world his expertise in drinking and smoking, and that he could do it all one-handed.
“What now?” Mom’s tone was miffed, clear disappointment to see her brother off the wagon once again.
