Remedial post one of five.

I drove north and crashed in the fifth wheel by the new good coffee place in the pines. Except ‘crashed’ wasn’t what happened. I was seized instead at bedtime, not by a neurotic stress episode as in months past, but by another of those poem titles to unfold.

“1957”.

It was the year of the most iconic American car, the Chevy. It was the year that my own mother turned eighteen, and got married.

We don’t know a whole lot about what happened for the first four years, except that there were things that no one really wanted to talk about for a long stretch into the future.

But at the dawn of the sixties, the marriage began to rapidly bear fruit.

She had three sons, each of whom started out as Mama’s boys, and each of whom became Ladies Men, in their various and I do mean various ways.

She had three daughters, each of whom grew up to be genuine beauties, and not just beautiful either. Foxy. Smart. Again, each in their own fashion.

This imagery haunted me for some hours before I could drift off.

Can you not see how 1957 could be tempted to unfold?