Son Say Goodnight To Grandpa

“Son”...”say goodnight to grandpa” Spurred by mother dearest as well as other politesse drummed into her second born fobbing blandishments as incentive tumbled off fingers of prodigal son tripped wordsmith to splutter forth forthwith the following lines. Back in the day quaint summertime of yore, the following popular refrain reverberated within hallowed halls of school. "No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher's/ teachers' dirty looks” Never did exotic vacations populate those twelve weeks when doors flung opened at Henry Kline Boyer, whence score years ago yours truly now (June 8th, 2023) approximately same age, when mine paternal grandfather visited me, and other members of family at then Route Deliver #2 Collegeville, Pennsylvania, the home of mein kampf. Figurative eons ago bygone innocent childhood of mine oblivious to progressive political issues easily delighted, liberated, tantalized..., especially when Sunkist grandpa Harris (Aaron) indulged yours truly jais nais sais quois kibitizing lovingly, mirthfully naturally offering pleasing qualities, surrendering slender tanned arms where upon left wrist dangled his venerated wristwatch (analog), I ecstatically fingered, prized, and toyed with said object fascinated at the linkedin craftsmanship, which yielded general squealing zealousness from an ordinarily non emotionally expressive lad. This towheaded grandson, extremely excited when me daddy's papa came to this figurative rural outpost, (despite his chastising behavior ridiculing favorite progeny's children), where traces of early twentieth century still evident when manicured formal gardens pegged, limned, harkened... back to a supposedly simpler time when this elderly family member (who only completed eighth grade), whose birth benchmarked, coincided and demarcated with late Industrial Revolution, whence Philadelphia birthplace noisy with horse drawn carriages competing with early model automobiles crowding thee busy thoroughfares, where the streets have no name. Lemme return back to the previous topic, and explain how I felt eager to interact with cranky, yet doting old man, which showcased chained metal links wore a temporary imprint upon his bronzed aged skin – dog head lee remaining gently persuading him to delay when departure time arrived for favorite boyhood relative, twas pure heavenly glory conniving, finagling, inveigling... our favorite grandfather to situate myself on right side and toy with the wristwatch (analog), winning three way verbal tussle between yours truly and two siblings (an older and younger sister), which when a kid also exhibited glee at occasions treasuring said older folk gave me a frog tiled toy (sliding puzzle) that required dexterity moving pieces fastly secured, which when complete always left me agog and this, that or some other gewgaw, souvenir, trinket (plus a bit of chump change given to me) spurred mine late mum to spark me mental cog to say “good morning”, “good afternoon”, “goodnight”, “thank you,” or when eggnog proffered to this most senior chronological guest, who sat at the head of table, or blankly watching television like a bump on a log while chided, forced, induced... to parlay social graces from this mere pollywog, who (much as delight arose fussing with trappings worn loss on atrophied flesh), a skittishness found me averse to follow orders as if I happened to be a petsmart dog. At that time Florida orange juiced industry touted, popularized, and linked in with Anita Bryant - American singer, political activist, known for anti-gay activism and 1958 Miss Oklahoma beauty pageant winner, and a brand ambassador from 1969 to 1980 for the Florida Citrus Commission. Thee paternal grandfather oft times visited our then rural abode at that time one sturdy estate (originally called Glen Elm) wildlife twittered, jibber-jibber, crowed... within the plush wooded tract even then blueprints drawn up land deeded, mapped, parceled, and slated to explode; our then eco-friendly family averse to witness expanding commercialization across wetlands horizons (Canadian Geese flocked to pond, which liquid haven courtesy Donald Nelson got the plug pulled and drained watery basin) asthma late mum didst lament misfortune of flora and fauna, nevertheless chided me against even thinking about sabotaging property after I played devil's advocate to goad conspiratorial natural forces to undermine cookie cutter look alike slap dashed, ticky tack shoddy tinderboxes (vinyl city) growed on formerly untamed, uber virgin woods, perhaps early boondocks getaway hoed and plowed, but indomitable (naturally enshrined eminent domain abandoned since pioneers bushwhacked rustic habitations) nature relished reversed grape seeded tracery etched yet 'pon reflection, I ponder how early occupation knowed no habitat foresaw wreckage when decision via wealthy Leipers, (original residents plus wealthy owners of The Bell and Clapper) unanimously custom made crafted mansion actually originally a summer getaway. Self imposed endeavor to indulge drafting literary effort, though methinks love's labor's lost hunt and peck typing across qwerty keyboard and captcha characteristics unique to house of my boyhood, whereby selecting alphanumeric and/or special symbols instantaneously generate electronic signals electronically communicating, subsequently transmitting byte size data packets description to respective ip node (to create document courtesy OpenOffice) analogous how modus operandi to build stately sturdy summer country villa, (circa early 1900's) which property whittled down to 324 Level Road demesne comprising about a half dozen acres eventually acquired by Boyce Harris February 28th 1968 - for x number of years mortgaged he towed, a near singlehanded undertaking to gentrify house as elements of style witnessed once ship shape wrought architectural structure weathered, subjected to degradation, naturally deteriorated him (in vain) to enlist by force if need be grunt laborious services of singular son the author of these words, who houses the ineradicable genes and chromosomes of August Aaron.