Again, Lee, now eleven-years old, and Mike, his brother, two years his senior, ran through the second floor attic bedroom discovering Grandpa Anton was listening, they heard grandpa cursing and mumbling in the living room, then their mother crossed from the kitchen to the dinning room and they could hear her foot steps crossing into her bedroom opening up the upstairs attic door, usually it was left open so the heat could rise, but closed when the boys wanted the attic to be sound proof. Their mother like a baseball umpire calling a strike asked, “… what is going on up there?” It was a good pillow fight. They’d back off slowly

standing by the cold window, their beds on each side of the window, they’d be silent—looking at each others eyes…the chill of the wind seeping through the crevasses of the window had a bite to it—: and then they’d start laughing when the coast was clear, when they’d hear her go walking away, but she’d leave the door open for assurances it would remain quiet

Lee and Mike, and their mother lived with Grandpa Anton, and they all knew who owned the house, Grandpa…and quiet was a virtue on his list

Lee and Mike ran down the stairs to put their coats and hats on, to venture out into the arctic type Minnesota winter, through the kitchen to the pantry entrance where the back door was—: grandpa would be pacing the living room floor, pipe in his mouth looking at his watch–-glancing at the black mantel clock in the dinning room against the wall, a mirror overhead, as if he was going some place… waiting for the Sunday’s roast to be done…he’d follow the boys with his eyes looking above his pipe and knuckles as he placed his tobacco…testing to see if it was lit far enough down the pipe.

There was no dog to kick, so Grandpa Anton would kick the rug, as if there was not enough noise to distract him, but grandpa Anton was not one of those—widowers, who for thirty-years who liked sitting around too long; thus, over and over and over he’d walk his path from the front door that lead out to the porch, from the living room where the T.V. sat, to the entrance of the dinning room which was partitioned off only by a huge archway, as if there was a no-go zone. If Hop alone Cassidy was on television, he’d sit in his sofa chair in front of the T.V., hoping the roast would not demand his assistance for a small piece of his time

…the phone would ring, on the other end would be an Uncle or Aunt of the boys, they all came over for Sunday dinner, all fifteen of them—it would be sacrilegious if they protested, and so they’d come, no matter how much snow,—other than a tornado, they’d come. It was best that they call also, for the phone had a forty limit call on it, and a party line that at times had parties as you’d try to carry a conversation with your caller…

Lee and Mike would be putting on their boots to tread through the heaps of snow the winter wonderland left the night before, for it was never graceful in allowing man or beast a pathway in that area of the country.

(Leaping backwards just a bit here.) Grandpa, now listening to the boys upstairs—also to the racket in the pantry, he waited patiently for the door to slam standing by the phone, hoping they’d stay out for the day [they being: the boys]…god forbid they come back before Hop alone… was over… but now back to the phone; the boys could see Grandpa talking through the three windows as they walked by the dinning room, as he stood on the boarder of the living room and dinning room…the-no go zone, the boys tightening their scarf’s around their faces as the below zero winds and snow slapped raw frosted ice at their faces, freezing every exposed bit of hair, creating white frozen beards, numbing the rest of their exposed skin, while trying to creep around the edges of their hats up their pants legs, to chill whatever was left, and into their eyes and ears hoping to frost-bite the living…daylights out of them.

Dennis Siluk's new book, "Spell of the Andes," has some of his best poetry in it, you can see it at http://www.amazon.com or http://www.abe.com.