I’m told I came out cross-eyed with webbed-feet and a peciluar fondness for carrots… later, I got the typhoid and my eyes went back to normal. To this day, my parents still say it’s a miracle that I have those webbed-feet.
I wont sugarcoat shit for you, it was hard growing up. We only had three pair of pants to share among the thirty-two of us. Food was scarce, we all suffered from a lack of education, and Ultimate Frisbee hadn’t been invented yet…. Hard times did indeed abound.
My brothers and I all shared a bunkbed that was twelve feet high and shook like my Pa’s hand before he had his morning coffee.
Well, we were supposed to share it but most nights I fell asleep outside, dreaming about what it’d be like to be a Space Cowboy drinking Space Whiskey on a comet with Moonbeams and other kids with webbed-feet would be there too. But those was just dreams.
My parents were Tobacco farmers. Had been since FDR’s twin brother (Flobberton Delanor Roosevelt) lost the farm to my Pa on account of a bad hand of Gin Rummy. To this day FrDR still claims he was swindled out of the land (which he most defintely was as my Pa loved to recount the story about how he cheated the shit out of him).
We lived a simple life. Most of us kids just talked to the frogs and sat staring at the Sun.
Ma and Pa tried there best to put supper on the table when they could, but it was hard (especially since we had to sell the table to pay for my Pa’s fancy subdries addiction).
It all came to a head one night when…