My father, long retired and recently afraid of becoming irrelevant, has become a pest. A master gardener, himself, he has volunteered to teach the Wampanoag children of Cape Cod how to grow vegetables the way 80 year old white men do - by stabbing cold metal hand shovels into the sandy soil and throwing dry seeds in the gaping wounds. The Wampanoag women of Cape Cod prefer their traditional methods. The warm heels of their feet create the needed homes for the pregnant seeds. Dad visits their community garden unannounced, uninvited, and unaware he may be perceived as a great white heron in a floppy hat attempting to poach fish from their pond. The tortured history here would recommend a gentler approach, but he is forever surprised by the frosty welcome. He suspects they want his money more than his help. His plans for Thanksgiving, my sister and I think, are bound to make matters worse. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Tag Archives: Cape Cod
A Sort of Homecoming
Uncle was bad at everything Cape Cod cares about. He excelled in one way only: he loved my fault-finding aunt without reason. He was blessed in one way only: his indulgent family loved him without reason. Today we buried him next to my waiting aunt in the only home he has wanted for seven years.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 