Bud Grossmann’s Words of the Week for the Week of April 10, 2011 Previously unpublished fiction. © 2011 by Bud Grossmann. All Rights Reserved.   Deer Skull, 2011 © 2011 by Bud Grossmann NO FUR, NO ANTLERS, NOT MUCH BRAINS AT ALL Fri., April 8, 2011 8:39AM Dear Debbie,      I have a busy morning planned, and a slow afternoon (at the heart hospital with Dad), but sometime I’d like to watch on YouTube Ms. Kloppenburg’s victory speech of a couple days ago. In my own life I benefit from frequent reminders to ponder my pronouncements prior to publishing them.      Yesterday I took some stuff to the recycling bins, saw — there, in plaid pajama pants like those you may have noticed him wearing on Sunday. I conveyed my sympathy (not about the pants), and we discussed ritualistic disposal of human remains (a subject in this instance unrelated to recycling).      Also at the Fjord recycling center I greeted a fellow hauling brush with a garden tractor, someone who, first time he met me, kindly —, a man who perhaps bears the burden of community disapprobation for the misdeeds of a family member. (As I recall, the newspaper reported his — pled guilty to —, an act you, for one, remarked upon at the time in the privacy of my dining room, mercifully beyond the —’s hearing.)      Driving back home by way of Main Street, I saw — coming out of Grover’s, a gallon jug of milk in his hand. I stopped in the street and rolled down my passenger-side window to exchange family news. His — is experiencing “problems associated with old age,” I think he said. Small town, I love it.      The deer skull souvenir had lain no less than half a year in the marsh grass. It had no hair or skin and didn’t appear to have much marrow or residue of brain; I noticed no odor when I put it in the car or when I offered it to Jason. But in my kitchen, in the corn-on-the-cob kettle, soupy, sticky, smelly slime boiled out. I let the bones simmer two hours and more. When I scrubbed the tiny incisors with a human toothbrush, they pulled out of the thin chin bone. The molars are loose, but seem still rooted in the jaw. I’ve soaked the bones overnight now in diluted Clorox, but they remain stained, esp. the deep valleys of the molars. The surfaces don’t gleam like the bones in Jon Langsdorf’s Indian hut. I reported all this to Dad this morning, and he said I was welcome to some skulls-with-antlers he has in the pole building. I thanked him but said no. If I get lonely in my dining room, I’ll pin an Old Man Saying Grace poster on my wall while the room awaits a coat of paint.      This morning’s loaf of occidental rye rose nicely. When I get to my last batch of factory seconds, I’ll try to remember to save a slice for a side-by-side comparison with high-gluten. The occidental doesn’t smell as good while baking, is my impression, but the ultimate flavor and texture seem perfectly fine. I wonder if last Sunday’s weather would account for the denser loaf that you took home.                          Bye for now, dear.                          Love, Dave ♦         ARCHIVES         Click for a list of other Words of the Week I would welcome your thoughts on this page (or any of my others).  Write to me at the following address.  Please be sure to spell Grossmann with two n’s and mention what page you are writing about. Thanks!  BUD GROSSMANN Top of this page | HOME | Fine Photography | Picture of the Day | Writings | | Words of the Week | Mom & Pop Prop. Mgt. | FAQ |

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