Hold on to the memory

But don’t cling too long to the past

Do not think of tomorrow

Or the present will not last

© 2010 Terry D. Robertson Broken Windows, Reflections of Fool

Chapter One --- 1954 Murray, Utah

Tory Denholm Grunwald Hoffman was bored and there was no reason to be. He certainly was not alone—he sat on a blanket in the backyard next to his mother. She was lying sprawled on her stomach reading a magazine. His older sister Jude supported herself, arms behind her, and eyes closed with her face tilted toward the warm summer sun. “Frying her hide”, as daddy called it and a term mama did not like. But at this particular moment, he did not really care. His inability to find something stimulating was foremost on his mind.  Everything was boring in this overly-heated backyard.

          He rose carefully to his feet, knowing mama did not like to be disturbed when she was busy—like reading magazines. He was lonely, although he had to admit at times this fairly small house in this old neighborhood was full beyond capacity and was at times—far from boring. His daddy, mama, grandma, two sisters and cousin all lived in this old brown-shingled two bedroom rental. They practically lived on top of each other. His much older cousin Ariel delegated herself to sleep in the dugout cellar beside the house. And the neighborhood was so old there were no children Tory’s age to play with. They were all either too young or much older. 

W. Wilson Avenue, the old neighborhood Tory lived in, was a short street that began at the corner of Utah’s largest thoroughfare, State Street then dead ended two blocks down into a pond covered by a small bridge. W. Wilson was one of the less affluent areas of the suburb of Salt Lake City, yet Tory paid it little attention except for the street’s lack of entertainment.

          He stared vacantly around the yard for a moment. His daddy had built several wooden pens for Ariel’s mean old rabbits that growled like wolves when they had kittens. The family also had two dogs. There was Ariel’s little brown chi-wow-wow named Coconut, who was always yipping at everyone and everything and did not care for anyone except Ariel. He was nothing like the old family Spaniel, Soupy. And although he was a very lazy dog, he was a very polite one. Even when he was too lethargic to play, which was most of the time, it was of no consequence. Tory still loved his old Soupy.

          “Where are you going Tory?” Mama turned her head. She was wearing dark glasses that hid her eyes and Tory could not ascertain if she was angry or not. However, she did not sound mad.

          “Nuttin’.” He replied. “Just inside.”

          “Well, don’t bother your grandmother. She is very busy and please Tory—no silly questions. You will worry that woman into an early grave asking things you haven’t the faintest idea about.”