My only treasure is…..the memory of a stick. That’s right, a stick.
We were dirt-poor when I was a kid, so every Christmas my father would….say….steal a roasted chicken from the supermarket and give it to us as a pet, Or smack the big bully-kid next door around and tell us “That’s your present this year….Merry Christmas…...now, go to bed…..”
Anyway, when I was 14 my dad broke off two gnarly branches from the tree out back, and lovingly wrapped them for my brother and me. I named mine “Stickie” (My brother’s stick’s name is lost to the ages).
Stickie and I were inseparable. He even went into the army with me, and saved my life more than once during a year of combat duty in Vietnam.
And if you were wondering, Stickie is no longer with us. ‘Why’ isn’t important. Too painful a story to tell anyway. Let’s just say that old cliche’ advice is true:
Don’t play with matches…...
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Thank you for listening.
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The End.