returns to the chair, and finds a large word in a dialogue balloon. He carefully spells the word, as he has heard his brother do.
âWhat does a-a-w-o-o-w-a-h!â mean?â
At my request James repeats the spelling. I figure it is the sound of a siren and tell him so, but he says itâs not. He shows the picture to me. The word in question is the wailing of a Belgian Jew who knows heâll be killed in the morning. I tell James it means the mouse is sad. Eventually James concludes that the mice are going to jail for not wearing their hats.
At supper, Sam is still thinking about Maus. He is a serious boy, prone to prolonged pondering. He wants to be a scientist when he grows up.
âIâm glad there was a Hitler,â he says.
âWhy?â I say.
âBecause if he hadnât lived, Grandma and Grandpa wouldnât go to New York and have Mommy. Then you wouldnât have met her. And thereâd be no me. I have to be glad, see?â
I stare at him, awed by the practicality of his logic. He is an implacable child, a careful thinker. For me to present a counterargument is to attack his very being, deny his existence in the same way the Nazis tried to deny the Jews.
Hot Rod to Haldeman
Rita and I decided to picnic in my hometown of Haldeman with sandwiches and bottles of cold L-8, Kentuckyâs only native soft drink. Its official name is Ale-8-1, or âa late one,â because it arrived on the market after Coca-Cola. L-8 is affectionately called swamp water or mule piss, and must be drunk cold from a long-neck bottle clamped between your thighs while driving.
I drove the Malibu with my left arm draped out the window in true country style. A large sign proclaimed the future site of a country club and an exclusive golf community. Trees were cut down and roads laid out. New houses clung to denuded slopes as if dropped from the sky. The entire enterprise reminded me of a trailer court for the affluent. âHickorY PointE,â proclaimed a sign in large letters. If you squinted, they formed a new wordâ HYPE.
In Morehead I pointed out to Rita where Iâd bought my first bike and shot my first game of pool. I know the eight miles between town and Haldeman better than I know the face of either of my sons. I know the shadows of the land, the stone outcroppings high on the hillside, the silhouette of the tree line at dusk. As we drove, I gave Rita a running commentary on the roadâthe two straight stretches where you could pass a slow car, the tobacco warehouse, the turn up Christy Creek where the old drive-in movie theater was built on a landfill. Now itâs gone and a new grade school sits there. I stopped at Big Perry Road and told her about the school bus wreck. Farther on was Little Perry Road, a long dead-end hollow that followed a creek in classic Appalachian style.
The sky was so crisp and taut you expected it to snap in the wind. The leaves of a silver maple turned their bellies to the breeze and the tree looked covered with snow. We passed Gates, a community reduced to a railroad whistle post. At Hayâs Branch I made the turn to Hayâs Crossing, and showed Rita where a bunch of us boys once swam naked in a shallow muddy pool. One of us cut his foot on glass. A boy threw someoneâs shoes into the water. Somebody cried and somebody got mad. I couldnât remember which boy I had been.
It was not the land that Rita enjoyed, nor the stories of my past, but the Malibu. The throbbing engine thrilled her. She loved its speed and power. She sprawled luxuriously in the front seat, and said sheâd lived in New York apartments that were smaller. The term muscle car came from the tremendous horsepower harnessed beneath the hood of cars in the late sixties and early seventies. Manufacturers in Detroit upped the ante until they were putting race cars on the streetâChevelle, GTO, Charger, Barracuda. Rowan County muscle cars were jacked up in the back
âWhat does a-a-w-o-o-w-a-h!â mean?â
At my request James repeats the spelling. I figure it is the sound of a siren and tell him so, but he says itâs not. He shows the picture to me. The word in question is the wailing of a Belgian Jew who knows heâll be killed in the morning. I tell James it means the mouse is sad. Eventually James concludes that the mice are going to jail for not wearing their hats.
At supper, Sam is still thinking about Maus. He is a serious boy, prone to prolonged pondering. He wants to be a scientist when he grows up.
âIâm glad there was a Hitler,â he says.
âWhy?â I say.
âBecause if he hadnât lived, Grandma and Grandpa wouldnât go to New York and have Mommy. Then you wouldnât have met her. And thereâd be no me. I have to be glad, see?â
I stare at him, awed by the practicality of his logic. He is an implacable child, a careful thinker. For me to present a counterargument is to attack his very being, deny his existence in the same way the Nazis tried to deny the Jews.
Hot Rod to Haldeman
Rita and I decided to picnic in my hometown of Haldeman with sandwiches and bottles of cold L-8, Kentuckyâs only native soft drink. Its official name is Ale-8-1, or âa late one,â because it arrived on the market after Coca-Cola. L-8 is affectionately called swamp water or mule piss, and must be drunk cold from a long-neck bottle clamped between your thighs while driving.
I drove the Malibu with my left arm draped out the window in true country style. A large sign proclaimed the future site of a country club and an exclusive golf community. Trees were cut down and roads laid out. New houses clung to denuded slopes as if dropped from the sky. The entire enterprise reminded me of a trailer court for the affluent. âHickorY PointE,â proclaimed a sign in large letters. If you squinted, they formed a new wordâ HYPE.
In Morehead I pointed out to Rita where Iâd bought my first bike and shot my first game of pool. I know the eight miles between town and Haldeman better than I know the face of either of my sons. I know the shadows of the land, the stone outcroppings high on the hillside, the silhouette of the tree line at dusk. As we drove, I gave Rita a running commentary on the roadâthe two straight stretches where you could pass a slow car, the tobacco warehouse, the turn up Christy Creek where the old drive-in movie theater was built on a landfill. Now itâs gone and a new grade school sits there. I stopped at Big Perry Road and told her about the school bus wreck. Farther on was Little Perry Road, a long dead-end hollow that followed a creek in classic Appalachian style.
The sky was so crisp and taut you expected it to snap in the wind. The leaves of a silver maple turned their bellies to the breeze and the tree looked covered with snow. We passed Gates, a community reduced to a railroad whistle post. At Hayâs Branch I made the turn to Hayâs Crossing, and showed Rita where a bunch of us boys once swam naked in a shallow muddy pool. One of us cut his foot on glass. A boy threw someoneâs shoes into the water. Somebody cried and somebody got mad. I couldnât remember which boy I had been.
It was not the land that Rita enjoyed, nor the stories of my past, but the Malibu. The throbbing engine thrilled her. She loved its speed and power. She sprawled luxuriously in the front seat, and said sheâd lived in New York apartments that were smaller. The term muscle car came from the tremendous horsepower harnessed beneath the hood of cars in the late sixties and early seventies. Manufacturers in Detroit upped the ante until they were putting race cars on the streetâChevelle, GTO, Charger, Barracuda. Rowan County muscle cars were jacked up in the back
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