Lint in the Pocket
Lint in the Pocket
“Maybe we’re just lint in some monster’s pocket!,” I exclaimed. My dad, shaking his head, said, “I don’t think so, honey.” For some reason I haven’t been able to get that notion out of my head after it first struck me. I was about 8 years old. I’m now close to the age of the Beatles song “When I’m 64.”
We lived on a few acres in the country. My parents had, what I thought at the time, was a huge garden. It was probably about half an acre. They grew corn, tomatoes, green beans, cucumbers and probably a pumpkin or two. A large enough crop to feed us through the winter. Mom would make frozen corn on the cob, canned corn off the cob, canned tomatoes, tomato juice, canned beans, pickles, etc.
Mom was in the kitchen canning…something. Dad and I were in the driveway, shucking corn. Well I was shucking, he was cutting the kernels off the cob. Not really saying anything to each other except the occasional, “you didn’t get all the silk off this one,” handing it back to me to do a better job. After eons of deep thought, I suddenly exploded with the idea that “Maybe we’re just lint in some monster’s pocket!” Perhaps I was trying to impress my father with the fact that I’m not an empty headed kid or maybe I was trying to scare him. I did neither. It barely interrupted the steady flow of his knife releasing the kernels from the cob as he said, “I don’t think so, honey.” We quietly went back to work readying the crops for mom’s winter preparations.
To this day I still wonder about that exchange. Even as I dig in the dirt to plant my annual flowers. I won’t disturb a worm or another living thing I see in the ground. Because maybe I’m the monster and they’re the lint in my pocket.
Read More“Maybe we’re just lint in some monster’s pocket!,” I exclaimed. My dad, shaking his head, said, “I don’t think so, honey.” For some reason I haven’t been able to get that notion out of my head after it first struck me. I was about 8 years old. I’m now close to the age of the Beatles song “When I’m 64.”
We lived on a few acres in the country. My parents had, what I thought at the time, was a huge garden. It was probably about half an acre. They grew corn, tomatoes, green beans, cucumbers and probably a pumpkin or two. A large enough crop to feed us through the winter. Mom would make frozen corn on the cob, canned corn off the cob, canned tomatoes, tomato juice, canned beans, pickles, etc.
Mom was in the kitchen canning…something. Dad and I were in the driveway, shucking corn. Well I was shucking, he was cutting the kernels off the cob. Not really saying anything to each other except the occasional, “you didn’t get all the silk off this one,” handing it back to me to do a better job. After eons of deep thought, I suddenly exploded with the idea that “Maybe we’re just lint in some monster’s pocket!” Perhaps I was trying to impress my father with the fact that I’m not an empty headed kid or maybe I was trying to scare him. I did neither. It barely interrupted the steady flow of his knife releasing the kernels from the cob as he said, “I don’t think so, honey.” We quietly went back to work readying the crops for mom’s winter preparations.
To this day I still wonder about that exchange. Even as I dig in the dirt to plant my annual flowers. I won’t disturb a worm or another living thing I see in the ground. Because maybe I’m the monster and they’re the lint in my pocket.
