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summer of '78

Joey Maree

Updated: Jul 16, 2024

sum·mer/ˈsəmər/ the warmest season of the year, in the northern hemisphere from June to August


I was sent away in the summer of ’78

to a grandma’s house in Spearfish, South Dakota.

a step daughter to a step-dad, 

living on a farm, with folks I’d never met.


new dad drove a big red Ford. he used it to haul things.


“it’s just up this road” he said.

but the road was long, and not a house in sight. 

a beat-up mailbox marked the spot

to a path that led nowhere;


or so it seemed. 


toothy tires gnawed at the trail- 

spitting gravel, like new dad spit

chaw. a silhouette farmhouse rose

against the twilight's amber hues


there were other things too.


they came, like bugs to a light.

“cousins,“ he said. but, I saw, strangers;

feral cats multiplying,

with every blink.


creatures,


with hand-me-down clothes, and

homegrown haircuts.

the grandma’s face was in the window

and then, at the door.


“Bernice was a baby maker,” I heard mama say, once. 


as the grandma lore goes, she pushed 

twelve kids into this world. all with a

Pall Mall in one hand, and a PBR in the other.

new cousins were locusts-


descending.


always claiming they were headed to clean

the slough. “Don’t come back all tar heeled 'nfull a piss now.”

the grandma liked to bellow. i still hear her

through that blistered summer wind


the children


were quick to holler back

with yes’ms, uh huhs, and so on-

the biggest boy kindly warned me...

“don’t mess with that minx. she eats glass 


and shits fire.”


I was the only one who laughed.

I learned that it was fear that made them feral.

and love here, was kept on a tight leash.


“Best to be outside when you hear the shouts” 


another cousin told me. this time, I didn’t

laugh. I saw, the grandpa dole out beatings-

watched the grandma take it, like a man.  


“bigger man than him,” I’d say. under my breath.

i heard the grandpa wore diapers in the end. died

uneventful-like. he's buried behind a broken


down barn- no headstone, we think,

Bernice outlived seven of her kids, spread over the Dakota’s

possibly, at the age of 87, and probably with most

ruthless surety, a Pall Mall in one hand,

and a PBR, in the other.



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