|Search Bees in the Western Art Glass Etsy shop|
...while a squirrel nervous tail fidget stutter step like some kind of Pistol Pete...sudden memory of accompanying my grandpa into the dim cafe owned by Chinese immigrants in small town prairie town. wooden sidewalks. smoke hung from the pressed tin ceiling like cumulonimbus clouds. Dominoes and bell shaped glasses of dark amber beer. and outside the heady aroma of Spring seeping from emergent photosynthesis. and eventually my sixth grade teacher, Miss Fink, aroused an unknown sense of perfume and nylons. Drawing little cartoons...intoxicated.
The back lane behind the sheds (one converted into a bedroom for me) of my grandparents house...dirt and rutted brought you to Buckshot Davis' Pops petrol station. Directly on the other side of the lane...the Langenburg Museum. A giant garage...neglected for years, had allowed the gang of twelve year-olds from town to get inside. We discovered a trapdoor into a bare room with a couch and chair. This became our clubhouse. Many hours were whiled away with squirreled comic books, soda pop and potato chips.