Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Memento Memoir

No really, I was raised by a family of woodrats at Sweetwater Lake in Colorado, and we spent the winter in a vacant cabin. They taught me to gnaw a million pieces of paper and to subsist on the seeds from pinecones all winter.

No, that wasn't it. A dysfunctional family of old fur traders raised me in the Maine woods and clothed me in the hides of moose, deer and fox. We called the oldest trader Big Moose.

My father was a miner in the upper Malamute.
My mother was a hostess in a house of ill repute.

Oops, no, that's an old drinking song, but hey, it would make a good story, no, I mean it would make a good memoir.

I was born in a meth house deep in the Nevada desert, on an old deserted ranch populated by. . . no, that won't work.

Hell, I was raised by the Baader-Meinhof gang who hid me in their jail cells and fed me smuggled saurbraten and clothed me in striped corderoy and denim. No, that sounds too much like . . . oh hell.

My father was a miner in the upper Malamute.
My mother was a hostess in a house of ill repute.
At the tender age of nine, they kicked me out without a tear.
Said "get out of here, you son of a bitch and be an engineer."

This is my story. . . it is a true story, as true as a story can be and still be a story.

The Miner's Daughter

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