At drop-in Free Fall Writing we chuckled at our prompts Auntie Flo and younger lover.
People were scandalized as I read aloud.
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My Auntie Flora was a character, a dumb blond although her hair was dark. I remember she once telephoned my mother crying that she had done her income tax five times, and gotten five different answers.
For myself, when I came of age, this memory made doing taxes problematic. I have since become resigned to the fact that every single time I do taxes, I get a letter back from Winnipeg listing all my mistakes, numbered by line on the form.
My Auntie was from my dad’s side of the family, nine kids, all drunkards. Grandpa had been a drunk too, but I never met him, as he passed out one evening in an Edmonton snow bank. My only clear story about him is that, before being posted overseas, Dad came home on leave and found that all the money he had sent home for food had been wasted, cupboards bare. Worse yet: Dad had hidden some booze in the very back of a super awkward crawlspace, and somebody had crawled along and taken it all. Father never sent any of his pay home again.
So there was my mother, from a local family of only three children, a mother who had her own prayer rug for kneeling. She began drinking with Auntie Flo and to this day, whenever my mother is boozing, she starts talking with a Scottish accent, just like Flora’s.
Flora’s two boys, Ian and Neil, are probably still alive, maybe, although they were among the first of the baby boomer generation. My oldest brother has passed away, as has brother number three—only six kids in our family. My dad called himself ‘the last of the rascals” as he was the last sibling to pass away from this scrub grass vale. When most of my aunts and uncles passed on, I was living in another time zone, and not informed. Nor much interested. Having drunks in the family meant brother number four and I shaking hands once and saying, “When we grow up, let’s not have any relatives.
Flora once gave me a green plastic camel. She came to my annual inspection once, and I treasure that.
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August 22 prompt- younger lover
“I was just waiting for you to turn eighteen. So I brought you some flowers, and uh…” A breeze blew by as I was standing on a cold concrete porch. Why aren’t porches a warm wood any more?
Mariel looked at my flowers. “Not roses?” She enquired.
“No, roses are too corny,” I said, “and maybe not gender appropriate. Not for you, I mean.”
Mariel had such pale skin, it was nice to see her blush.
“What, do you mean I’m not a woman? Sure, you’ve known me for years, but I’ve just turned eighteen—so I’ll have you know I’m legal in the state of New Jersey. And I can drive, too.”
I said in exasperation, “Of course I know you can drive!” Some of her lessons had been from me. A thought hit me. “You haven’t driven any boys to that “make out point” have you?”
“No, she said, and sighed. “I only make out with boys who do the driving. I mean men, I only make out with men over 18.” Then she looked me up and down. “Men who look distinguished,” she said.
Now it was my turn to blush. “Listen,” I said, “I’m proud to be a man—“ and we both laughed.
We paused, caught each other’s eye, and started laughing again.
Only when I judged the laughter had died down—‘never step on the laughter,’ someone said—only then did I say, “And I’m proud to see a young lady like you, a lady I have known for years, know men. Oops, I don’t mean Know, you know—you know what I mean.
I was prepared for her next humour, “I know,” she said knowingly.”
So the yellow flowers, not roses, were for her to give to a fellow she liked.
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Sean Crawford
In the mid-west Bible Belt
September
2025
Personal Note: I work among the disabled community, where we want our children to grow up able to give and receive sexual love and affection. This means not spoiling our kids. For example, by answering, “In a few minutes” before we go help.
Essay Note: Last week I mentioned that I despised that taken-for-granted essay template practised in high school. No wonder eager students enter university hating essays.
Essayist and computer expert Paul Graham offers some perspective on the history —if you don’t know history then you are bound to repeat it— of high school essays.
