You remember Crazy Emory. He's my neighbor in the farmland here. Emory is a secretive, scary, but bright old coot, a former teacher-librarian-genealogist who now runs his onion farm next to my beets-and-squash field. I didn't know until now that he splits his time between St Louis and Delaware---i.e., some days he's in Missouri and some days he's in Seine. I wish I could go places like Emory; it seems I'm always in Seine.
I discovered Emory's travelabouts when, upon leaving for St Louis, he asked me to feed his goats which graze next to his onion patch. Ugly creatures, they look strikingly like their master. Anyway, Emory gave me the key to his house. I browsed his kitchen, finding on the table four old, empty, large boxes of pizza, a gallon jug of vinegar, two books by Alexander Sohlzhenitzin and one by Ayn Rand, a purple scarf, and a set of dominoes. "Hell," I thought, "nothing here worth swiping." But I did "steal" some definitions of words Crazy had written on his notepad on the table:
osteopornosis: a degenerate disease (I might have that)
decafalon: the grueling event of making it through the day consuming only those things which are good for you
caterpallor: the color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating
The vinegar might be getting to Emory.
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