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Wolves? I didn’t know any songs about wolves. Maybe that was for the best. I’d already spent too much time in my own head.
How come not? He must know Little Red Riding Hood by Sam the Sham, it’s his exact era
Her hobbies include narcissism and auditioning for The Dating Game.
found Daddy curled up in his armchair reading the Wandering Wizards series. We had started it together—he was on book four, and I was on five. It followed a young wizard named Finneas Frog who saved the world from a race of evil dragons. The series had been banned from schools by the same group of troglodytes that called Dr. Seuss a heathen, folks my dad felt sorry for because they had no sense of wonder.
The closest I’ve got to a wild animal is my sisters at a shoe sale.
“Those who can’t do, teach.” I hated that saying because it made teaching sound like it was just a fallback career for the runners-up of the world, like being a good teacher wasn’t a goal in itself. It implied that all you had to do to be a teacher was be smart enough for a child not to notice when you were wrong.
What prompted the mass exodus of students from Paris schools was the reintroduction of dinosaurs back into the science curriculum—the subject had been previously removed in 1972 due to the volume of parent complaints. I heard from the other teachers that the homeschool parents got together and wrote their own textbook. Janet Crabtree—American history—got her hands on a copy and called it “the kind of book you’d find in a Cracker Jack box: completely devoid of substance and slightly racist.”
Romans 16:17, “Watch out for those who cause divisions and create obstacles contrary to the doctrine that you have been taught.”
The only adornment was a century-old quilt that hung on the back of the sofa, depicting wolves running through trees after fleeing deer. Stitched on the top left corner was a solitary wolf howling at the moon. I imagined that quilt had probably been there since the cabin was built, long before anyone really studied wolves in an empirical sense, back when wolves were something men wrote poetry about, not reports.
“Good. I need a cigarette. Meet me out there in three.”
Modeled on Ron Weilgus, perhaps?
Wuthering Heights was open on his lap. “What do you think of it?” I gestured to the book. “Oh, it’s theatrical nonsense, but it was on the library’s list of ‘One Hundred Books to Read Before You Die.’ It was listed last, probably because you get so fed up after reading it that you croak.”
