July 7, 2022
Volume 52 - No. 26
By Pete Peterson
Grandma is just white bones now, but before she died, she made me promise to get a dog. “Not a teeny little one like that hotel heiress sticks in her pocketbook, but a real dog. A German Shepard, or a pit bull.” “Why’s that, Grandma?” “Crippled up like you are,” she had said, “you need a livin’ soul to keep your mind off the crap you The Paper - 760.747.7119
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went through in Afghanistan and to not pine over Candi Anne Baker and her ilk. Even in a wheelchair you can feed a dog, clip its toe nails, give it worm medicine and rub on flea powder.” “Sounds like work.”
“Not work. Care. Life's more bearable when you do for others. Even a dog.”
Grandma's gray head is at 1100 hours, outlined by cumulus clouds
that snipers hate because the sun reflects off the white cloud and makes it hard to measure environmentals. Target prep’s only good for three seconds as it is.
Grandma says, “Candi Anne married that yellow-haired Cartwright boy whose family owns the bank here in Bluebonnet and opened another one in Freeburg. She’s set for life.” I know Candi Anne's hitched. From the seventh grade on, everyone in
Grandma’s Way Continued on Page 2
school knew she’d be Mrs. Clay Cartwright someday. Clay played right end in football, though he's skinny and slow, but his Daddy’s on the school board. We didn’t throw the ball that much, so what the hell. He loved Candi Anne and his red '64 Thunderbird Classic. They’d tear through the streets of Bluebonnet, Candi’s blonde hair blowing in the wind, red lipstick on her pouty lips, sun glasses shielding her baby blues, clutching his arm as they careened into the “S” curve just past the high school their private Le Mans. You can do