Marmalade and the Sheep
MARMALADE OFTEN BECAME wildly excited. In his devotion to my son, William, that pastoral puppy knocked over canning jars, backed into the fire pit, peed on my rug, and otherwise proved a nuisance.
Nonetheless, Marmalade was the highlight of William’s day. Too young to have fought in the War to End All Wars or to have participated in the Amalgamated Association of Iron, Steel and Tin Workers’ strike, William culled glory from milking cows, harnessing horses, cleaning the outhouse, and safeguarding the sheep.
While he said little about his losses, William remained unwilling to go courting, disinterested in bettering his figuring skills, and offended by things of beauty. For instance, when Clarence brought me that bouquet of lupines and poppies, William harrumphed.
