All Grandpa and I wanted was a little disgusting house with a little light. We had it all fixed from the very beginning. We knew exactly how we were to go about acquiring these things we needed. It started in the teens. Your grandfather had a job down at the tomato soup plant, dipping frankfurters into cider and making molds from that. From the cans, you know. For the tops of them. This was long before plastics and molds and all the humdrum nothings of the world. Grandfather enjoyed his job there, and his earnings were more than enough for us to see a matinee every Sunday down at the playhouse by the docks. We once, after the dinner scrappings had been cleared, wrote “One day we will have a disgusting little house with a disgusting little light” on a piece of paper, and burned it in the woodstove.
