Don’t kill the story-teller

We have come home for Xmas, to Boulder, Colorado, to be specific. It is awfully cold here. We left Buenos Aires Sunday evening in a temperature of 88 F. We arrived Monday late morning in Denver to a temperature of 42 F. Tuesday morning we awoke for the Xmas shopping spree to a temperature of EIGHTEEN F. Just for contrast, we’ll be heading to Hawaii on New Years Day.

Last night, my only nephew (my only sister’s son) came to visit with his wife and their two children, age 5 and 3, or around there somewhere. I had not seen Chris in maybe 20 years, but as he pushes 40, he looked pretty much like he did in his late teens, last time I saw him. Some guys have all the luck. And speaking of luck, he definitely won the marriage lottery with Alaina. Their kids are Gerber jar beautiful.

Jackson, their son, was told by his grandmother, my sister, to be sure I told him the story of The White Hand. I have been scaring the bejesus out of little kids with that story for about forty years, and last night was Jackson’s turn. After the plates were taken away, the wine and beer bottles emptied, it was time for the story-teller to do his thing.

This is what happened:

Jackson, in red, insists on hearing his Great Uncle's notorious story of The White Hand. Brooke, white shirt, looks dubious ... she knows about Grandpa's stories.

And then the bulldozer blade scrapped over the old hidden grave and chopped off the hand of the dead witch buried there ...

That same night, just at midnight, the driver looked up to find where that swishing sound came from, and at that very moment the white hand, fingers curled under, long curvy fingernails scratching at the air, dropped over his face ...

Brenna, now hiding behind the story-teller, is already skeptical, but withholding judgement until the end, while the story-teller elaborates on the horrible details of the white hand attack.

Then the white hand ripped off his head and flew away with it, finally dropping the driver's poor busted head right into the swimming pool, where it made a gigantic splash that knocked all the water out of the pool, leaving the kids who were swimming floundering on the dry bottom, and the hand flew down and ...

Hey! Don't kill the story-teller!

Not exactly a Xmas story, but then, it’s not Xmas yet. On Xmas Eve I tell the story of the mutilated corpse that turned into a vampire and then ran for President of the United States — and won!


7 replies »

  1. Well, I suppose any kid with any portion of my genetic code is going to be handsome indeed. Can’t you see it?

    Yes, I fully expect to see you in Buenos Aires. You have 18 months left.

  2. Sorry I missed this post until now.
    I love the pictures of you giving it some to the children but am not totally convinced they were taken in despite some wonderful acting by your good self. Do I hear the boards at The National calling your name Don? 🙂

    Happy New Year.x