the last man to ever rock the bolo tie


i remember i was maybe 14 or 15 yrs old, sitting in my grandparents camp on sacandaga lake, when after what most likely would be one or two many cocktails my grandfather professed to the group this little pearl of wisdom- he had at one time in his life come across a painting. a painting of such worth and value, that he shuddered in its mere presence, impossible that it was to be unclaimed at a flea market to be sure. so he called my grandmother over with haste in his voice to marvel at his soon-to-be newfound purchase. upon her speedy arrival she took two steps back in sheer amazement, slowly turned 180 degrees shook her head and said,"no." "we're not hanging a painting of a field of boobs", she said frankly. to which my grandfather proclaimed he never forgave her. it was his dream, he said, to be able to walk through a field made of boobs while shoe-less. my cousin ben gave one of his classic shrieking belly laughs, breaking the silence of the room only temporarily. what on earth made him tell that story to his adopted family in their camp den ill never know. but he fought in korea, and drove with one foot on the gas and one on the brake- "saving many lives that way", he would tell me. 'yeah', i thought. 'by sending them to the infirmary with whiplash, thereby keeping them off the field of duty.'so it was his prerogative
to spin such yarns whenever he wished. he always told me that i was a good kid, better than my cousin ben. i told him that we were all good kids, just in different ways, and i always thanked him. my only hope for him is that he got his wish, and wherever he is now he's frolicking through those fields he always yearned for. shoe-less. good night papa ted.