Just outside the kitchen door – about five feet forward, and ten feet to the right – was a plum tree. It was one of the best trees in the world, not just for its delicious fruit, but because it was good for climbing, with good hand and foot holds, as well as having some really great branches for swinging and hanging on.
After watching or reading a western, there was nothing better than tying a length of rope around one of the low, strong, almost horizontal branches, then having a mock-lynching, during which my hapless brother – now a desperate outlaw – invariably got hanged by an angry mob, led by me – now a just and fair frontier town marshal. I was always the marshal as I had the pistol, holster, belt and Stetson. If I ever lent the cowboy accoutrements to my brother, then I became a Native American, known back in those politically-incorrect times as Indians. Read more…
My Father’s Garden: Stump
Copyright © R J Dent (2010 and 2016)
Acknowledgement: A revised version of Stump appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of The Smoking Poet.
Other stories from My Father’s Garden by R J Dent can be found at:
Follow R J Dent’s work on: