This week, Ive been folding material evidence of Winnipeg into my Vancouver apartment, which now looks like its being prepped for an episode of Hoarders. Among the crap and corruption (one of my fathers cherished phrases) that arrived this week is a cedar chest; in said chest are my late Aunt Pats two autograph books, one from 1932-33, one from 1938-39. In the latter, inscribed Christmas Day, 1938, from Betty Paterson, is the following verse, which pretty much seems to sum up the week. Man is like a sausage / Smooth upon the skin / Yet one can never tell / How much pig there is within.
Posted on: Fri, 31 Oct 2014 17:58:45 +0000