Yuppies and neckers. Flatlanders and woodchucks. Like a number of my pals growing up, Sandy's pedigree was mixed. His mom was born in Who-the-Hell-Cares-Where, Ohio, and came to Burlington to do research at the university — something technical, related to lungs. His dad was the seventh of seven raised on a dairy in Guilford, just a few miles from the river, and I tell you that guy was bona fide, 99th-generation Vermonter, a Deere mechanic to boot. As a child, I played in double-wides, big lakefront houses, the gamut, but always enjoyed Sandy's log cabin best. It was on a hill, surrounded by white pines. When we were real little, pretending to be Lewis and Clark in the back 40, we shot a raccoon asleep in one of those pines, Sandy being the one who actually pulled the trigger. Mrs. Raccoon fell to the ground — hard winter ground, frozen and snowless — but the BBs hadn't killed her quite dead, more like half-dead. It was gross and bad and we cried and that, as they say, was that. Sandy had the wild streak, no doubt. For longer than seemed possible, he drove this piece-of-turd Nissan — four parts rust, one part truck, five parts turd. His license was frequently suspended — like those shoes people tie together and fling over power lines, he'd say, she's suspended — but such was the law's concern, as far as he was concerned. Cruising back roads, which were the only kind after a session at the bar, or bars, he'd flick off the headlights and drive in the dark, hyperesthesia on proud display. What in the hell kind of garble are you dropping now, Sandman? Hyperthewhat? At the perfect level of drunk, he claimed, his eyes sharpened and allowed for a kind of night vision, but without the green tint. Total bullshit, of course, and yet perhaps not total. Sandy would shout some name, flick the headlights for a moment and, sure enough, Mr. Opossum or whoever would be there in the road. He'd kill the lights with another flick and swerve away clean, time after time. Ever the diligent student, I cut classes at Castleton for two years before officially pulling the plug. Wise Sandy saved himself the hassle and went straight to roofing. We worked together by day, up on pitches that were either too damn hot or too damn cold, and drank together by night. Sometimes we'd hit the watering holes in town on the off…
Yuppies and neckers. Flatlanders and woodchucks. Like a number of my pals growing up, Sandy's pedigree was mixed. His mom was born in Who-the-Hell-Cares-Where, Ohio, and came to Burlington to do research at the university — something technical, related to lungs. His dad was the seventh of seven raised on a dairy in Guilford, just a few miles from the river, and I tell you that guy was bona fide, 99th-generation Vermonter, a Deere mechanic to boot. As a child, I played in double-wides, big lakefront houses, the gamut, but always enjoyed Sandy's log cabin best. It was on a hill, surrounded by white pines. When we were real little, pretending to be Lewis and Clark in the back 40, we shot a raccoon asleep in one of those pines, Sandy being the one who actually pulled the trigger. Mrs. Raccoon fell to the ground — hard winter ground, frozen and snowless — but the BBs hadn't killed her quite dead, more like half-dead. It was gross and bad and we cried and that, as they say, was that. Sandy had the wild streak, no doubt. For longer than seemed possible, he drove this piece-of-turd Nissan — four parts rust, one part truck, five parts turd. His license was frequently suspended — like those shoes people tie together and fling over power lines, he'd say, she's suspended — but such was the law's concern, as far as he was concerned. Cruising back roads, which were the only kind after a session at the bar, or bars, he'd flick off the headlights and drive in the dark, hyperesthesia on proud display. What in the hell kind of garble are you dropping now, Sandman? Hyperthewhat? At the perfect level of drunk, he claimed, his eyes sharpened and allowed for a kind of night vision, but without the green tint. Total bullshit, of course, and yet perhaps not total. Sandy would shout some name, flick the headlights for a moment and, sure enough, Mr. Opossum or whoever would be there in the road. He'd kill the lights with another flick and swerve away clean, time after time. Ever the diligent student, I cut classes at Castleton for two years before officially pulling the plug. Wise Sandy saved himself the hassle and went straight to roofing. We worked together by day, up on pitches that were either too damn hot or too damn cold, and drank together by night. Sometimes we'd hit the watering holes in town on the off…