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Frank Cotolo
February 18, 2013 |
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As the new millennium continues into its second dozen years I am reminded of many things, the kinds
of things that people ask me about, if not constantly then just some times and I tell them I will
express my remembrances soon. Now is soon, as the winter colors dull the fields and the bare tree
branches hang crippled.
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When dusk comes early during these winter months, I wonder what happens to shadows when the sun goes
down? I asked myself this question the winter just after I turned eight but no one answered me. In
fact one person I asked chased me for three blocks threatening to beat me to a pulp. This raised
another question: Why would someone want to beat me into a piece of freshly squeezed orange juice?
I dared not ask anyone.
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Another winter, when I was older and lived in the tropics, a woman dressed in a flowery outfit
beckoned me to dine with her family. I remember thinking, "It sure is hot for January," but I
accepted her invitation. It was unfortunate that her family engaged in voodoo and they were upset
when they found out I was not a pin salesman but we broke bread anyway and later the woman dressed
in a flowery outfit said good night and told me never to call on her again. I dared not ask her why;
mostly because I was disturbed she did not shave her underarms. It didn't feel like winter that
winter.
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The winter I turned 12 my Uncle Garibaldi taught me to use a rifle but when I began to rifle through
his book collection he took the gun away and didn't speak to me again until I turned 23.
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My first winter in college was a disaster, mostly because my best friend's name was Armageddon.
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In January of 1967 my father drew up a will but he used stick figures and no lawyer would sign off
on it.
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Just as January ended and I was early in my 20s I won a contest to spend a week with Ernest
Hemingway. I thought I would learn so much about masculinity when I met him but it turned out he was
another Ernest Hemingway, the one that was recuperating from a sex-change operation.
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In the winter of 1970 I lost all matters of understanding. It was the winter of my disconnection.
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