Something About A Guy Named Ralph – Playing With Words

           

Growing up poor had not been easy. Ralph knew better than most. He had felt the pangs of hunger a time or two, had worn shoes that pinched his toes, and had slipped his legs through trouser legs, the bottoms of which kissed his calves above the ankles. He had borne the pain of classmates tittering at him from time to time and with their quips he had grown small, but not for long.

            Fortunately for Ralph, he had a role model in his papa, a man who, without complaint, had worked hard every day of his life on a small farm that eked out summer vegetables, eggs when the hens were cooperating, and goat milk, raw and warm. The two caught a few fish when the river was flowing, but scorching days often pulled water away from the shore, leaving them with a trickling run and slim pickings. Though there wasn’t abundance in the way of food, that hadn’t mattered much, for from his father, Ralph learned reserve, tenacity, and perseverance, and those supplanted the tangibles that were in short supply. Instead of a fat belly and cravings for more, Ralph grew character.

Papa passed on when Ralph was seventeen. It was a blow, under which some with more might have crumbled. Not Ralph. He packaged his grief, packed it inside, and moved forward, one step at a time, not looking back for one second. He was never really alone, he knew, because Papa was within, a memory as sweet and savory as fruit sweetened on a tangled vine.

And what will happen to Ralph? Maybe he’ll appear in a longer story some day; maybe he’ll be the main character in a novel; maybe he’ll surprise us all. I began with a sentence this afternoon. Ralph took over.