Tom Nugent<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t know anything. That\u2019s what you should understand about me — I\u2019m dumb as a hunk of moon granite, and the only thing I own is this little bit of music floating inside my head. And maybe not even that.<\/p>\n
Talking to my old man. He\u2019s sitting in the wheelchair. He says: \u201cThose two nephews, those two little shits — they swiped my barracuda and that\u2019s a fact.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDad, they\u2019re just getting it cleaned. They\u2019ll bring it back on Monday.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looks at me. His eyes are bright, bright, my ruined dad. Blue eyes, glowing with the madness of his condition. I don\u2019t mind. It\u2019s what we do. I seem to remember a line from an old song: I had to find out what condition my condition was in<\/em>.<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019re sneaks,\u201d says Dad. \u201cThey got my shaving lotion, too. Do you think I was born yesterday?\u201d<\/p>\n I don\u2019t say anything. Believe it or not, I\u2019m thinking about Toynbee, about his suggestion that the identity of the Western world was determined by a single fact: \u201cThe Franks gave up their language on the Romanized plains of Gaul.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI want chocolate yogurt,\u201d says Dad.<\/p>\n \u201cAll right,\u201d I tell him. \u201cAnd you will<\/em> have chocolate yogurt.\u201d<\/p>\n Oh, the bright day. I\u2019m watching a spangle of afternoon light inch across the nursing home carpet.<\/p>\n The thing is, I\u2019m half-convinced that both Dad and I were hatched in a world ruled by owls. Bear with me on this. Our cultural roots lie in western Normandy — and in that very interesting region, the Roman influence came late. We converted (there\u2019s no denying that<\/em> fact), but we converted late, and the rains of the Atlantic coast continue to have a powerful impact on us. Sometimes, when broken sunlight checkers through rain along the Normandy coast, you can almost hear the owls speaking to you.<\/p>\n The leaves throw their idle shadows on the grass, and for a moment your grief is a bright dagger lapped by crimson blood.<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d asks Dad. \u201cWhen are we getting my damn yogurt?\u201d<\/p>\n TOM NUGENT<\/strong> is the author of two novels and two collections of short stories, along with several works of nonfiction, including Death at Buffalo Creek<\/em> (W.W. Norton), a book of investigative journalism about the U.S. coal mining industry. He lives in Hastings, Michigan.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Tom Nugent I don\u2019t know anything. That\u2019s what you should understand about me — I\u2019m dumb as a hunk of moon granite, and the only thing I own is this little bit of music floating inside my head. And maybe … Continue reading