Home Sweet Hillbilly
Sal laughed and said, “Heidi, stop drinking out of those mason jars – we have real glasses… We aren’t hillbillies.”
“Speak for yourself.” I replied.
We went up to see my parents and brought a tent so we could camp in front of the cabin, which is fairly small for four adult-sized human beings.
We chopped wood in the heat of the day because my father is recovering from surgery and, truth be told, the wood pile was dwindling. The sweat came through my wife-beater in wide, uneven patches – I know some chicks who perspire but me? I sweat.
Mom brought us beers which we propped up in little nooks among the wood. Sal rolled rounds down the hill to me and I swung mightily. Dad came by and showed me how to use my abs. After that, I was a natural.
Days later my hands broke out in a strange rash I’d had only once before – while sweating through rubber surgical gloves at a home for the dying in Calcutta. Over the next few weeks my palms disintegrated in front of my eyes – a layer of skin peeling back and away, the entire surface white and ragged and dying.
“Oh well,” I said, “At least now I don’t need to wear cycling gloves.”
Sal shuddered and I took a sip of water from my mason jar.