“Hi Daddy,” I shouted, running to meet him in the driveway. Not really running. To be honest, it was more like waddling, in my snowsuit.
“Hi, Drangea,” he replied, grinning from ear-to-ear.
(Yes, it’s true, I let him call me Drangea. Daddy’s little girl. He’s the only person who’s allowed to call me Drangea).
“At-whay are-ay ou-yay oing-gay ishing-fay or-fay?” (This was during my pig Latin phase).
My Dad humored me. “Uskellunge-May.”
I loved going fishing for uskellunge-may.
(I was thirty-five before I discovered there weren’t any muskellunge to be found in central Maine).
“An-cay I-ay o-gay ith-way ou-yay?”
“The car is packed.” Dad had had enough. “Get a 6-pack of Nehi from the fridge and let’s go.”
It was barely fifty feet from the house to the dock, but we always took the car. Dad let me drive. “Don’t hit the cows,” he said and we both laughed at the joke. No one was funnier than my Dad.
I didn’t hit the cows. I didn’t hit any violins either. (I may have forgotten to tell you about the violins. In my father’s little joke, the cows are playing violins). Anyway, fifty feet later, we were parked at the dock, peering out at King Neptune’s icy domain.
“Did you bring the axe?”
#2. Incorporates: muskellunge, hydrangea, Latin, 6-pack, Neptune, violin, cows.