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Matty Ice Age (High School Football Highlights)

Sweat is running down my back and between my breasts. My gum has no flavour left at all. Move up. We might as well be back in elementary school.

Neither of us wants to stand up, not one bit. We try the third row, but he keeps motioning to us. So we sit in the first row huddled against each other where Mrs.

Where is Mrs. If I ever saw the need for family at a funeral, this would be the moment. My knee cracks against the coffin, against Mrs.

Alteen, probably, against her head. I give her blue hair. Swollen knuckles. Age spots. False teeth that clicked when she ate.

I imagine her as me, only older. I imagine her with very, very fat ankles. One of his arms lifts up the side of his cassock like an exclamatory wing.

Martha Ray says, She liked hamburgers. She had a twin sister named Janine who died. Of polio. She was senile by the time I met her.

She had heart disease. She had a yellow tinge. The priest clears his throat and looks out over the pews as if they have mourners in them.

He talks about what a fine woman the deceased was, how kind and considerate, how she gave selflessly to her community. She was well known for her work in the Peace Corps, he says.

I think he surprises himself as much as us with this information, because he stops and coughs and looks a bit guilty before continuing. She was very well loved in the literacy field.

Many people alive today are grateful that she helped them learn to read, he says. How about some work with— Ah. He looks into the distance a minute, removes his glasses and scrubs at his eyes.

Juvenile delinquents. I feel like knocking on her coffin and asking Mrs. Alteen for a word, seeing whether she was really such a paragon.

Who knows? Maybe she pulled the wings off flies. For a minute the priest gets lost. He riffles through his papers and announces that Alison Alteen—here there is more reverb and he has to move his mouth back from the microphone—was very active in her church, and was proud and pleased to supply pies for the annual Sunday school bake-off and fundraiser.

She was unfortunately childless, but this only left more time for her good deeds, the priest says. This upsets Martha Ray.

Uh, Father, she says and wavers up hesitantly. I think Mrs. Alteen had a son. The priest looks like he wants to shoot Martha Ray. It says here that the deceased was childless.

Maybe the son predeceased her. Did you ask at the nursing home? We sit down. The priest looks out over the top of his glasses, satisfied.

Will you two ladies be staying for the graveyard service? I just hired a sitter for a bit. Martha Ray says, Maybe my cousin could stay.

I jam my elbow into her ribs. She hunches over herself. She presses her forearm into her chest. How about: I never knew the deceased?

Should we do something? But he wobbles back up. In his hand he has a twist-tied baggie full of something beige. For a split second, I worry this might be Mrs.

Then I remember Mrs. Alteen is in the casket in front of us. Oh, my God, says Martha Ray. She has the heel of her hand jammed against the cloth over her breast so hard it must ache.

Every few seconds bluish milk fizzles up around her wrist. Martha Ray digs a fluffy Pampers from her purse and rams this against her chest for its superior absorptive powers.

He gestures for one of us to come up. I go up the stairs and the priest hands me the baggie. He shoos me back down. It looks like sand.

Martha Ray holds out her hands, cupped, pressing the diaper to her breast with her elbow, and I tip the baggie into them. Then I take a handful myself.

The priest intones, Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. We now commit Your daughter, Alison Alteen, into Your care. When neither of us does anything, he hollers, the microphone reverbing, Throw your sand.

Throw your sand! Martha Ray looks at me. There is a split second where I realize I could be in New York with George or in my hotel room waiting for George instead of here.

Martha Ray throws like a girl. The sand is picked up as if on a breeze and kicked back at us so that we have it in our eyes and in our mouths.

Mine actually lands, some of it, on Mrs. I watch it pool then slide off the rounded sides of the casket. We sneak out back dodging between headstones.

Martha Ray runs all the way to an oak tree on the perimeter, her hair flying and her dress bright as a headlight. I wanted Mom to show me how to raise up my girls.

Martha Ray yanks at her sticky dress where the milk has attached it to her skin and it rips away. I prefer babies. She waits a minute before eyeing me.

A married man and no kids to bother you out of existence. Across the graveyard, an earth moving machine is lifting dirt and depositing it in a pile.

A teenage boy on a rider mower has tied his shirt around his waist, his chest fragile as glass. I wonder if a grandchild of mine will sit here in another hundred years wondering about me.

I see Mrs. I tell my cousin about when Aunt Gail taught me to look after her newborn son. I was giving him a bath and he shot up a spume of pee that landed right in my eyes.

Aunt Gail laughed. I married the love of my life. In the change room, Martha Ray encourages me to put my bathing suit on. So I strip. She has a white dab of suntan lotion on the end of her nose.

Her third daughter lurks behind her. I lower myself into a chair and wish I had a beer, but Martha Ray has fed us all Kool-Aid so our lips are stained blue.

I feel ridiculously lonely in the middle of all this family. Martha Ray sighs. So, Becky, when are you admitting you made a big mistake moving to the west coast?

Granny always said that when she died, this family would fracture into a hundred bits. Martha Ray watches Rebecca go off the board, this time holding her knees in a cannonball.

And she was right. It did. Sticky, I say. She was really sticky. We were all kind of stuck to her and all the things she always wanted.

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For a split second, I worry this might be Mrs. Then I remember Mrs. Alteen is in the casket in front of us. Oh, my God, says Martha Ray.

She has the heel of her hand jammed against the cloth over her breast so hard it must ache. Every few seconds bluish milk fizzles up around her wrist.

Martha Ray digs a fluffy Pampers from her purse and rams this against her chest for its superior absorptive powers. He gestures for one of us to come up.

I go up the stairs and the priest hands me the baggie. He shoos me back down. It looks like sand. Martha Ray holds out her hands, cupped, pressing the diaper to her breast with her elbow, and I tip the baggie into them.

Then I take a handful myself. The priest intones, Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. We now commit Your daughter, Alison Alteen, into Your care.

When neither of us does anything, he hollers, the microphone reverbing, Throw your sand. Throw your sand! Martha Ray looks at me.

There is a split second where I realize I could be in New York with George or in my hotel room waiting for George instead of here. Martha Ray throws like a girl.

The sand is picked up as if on a breeze and kicked back at us so that we have it in our eyes and in our mouths. Mine actually lands, some of it, on Mrs.

I watch it pool then slide off the rounded sides of the casket. We sneak out back dodging between headstones. Martha Ray runs all the way to an oak tree on the perimeter, her hair flying and her dress bright as a headlight.

I wanted Mom to show me how to raise up my girls. Martha Ray yanks at her sticky dress where the milk has attached it to her skin and it rips away.

I prefer babies. She waits a minute before eyeing me. A married man and no kids to bother you out of existence. Across the graveyard, an earth moving machine is lifting dirt and depositing it in a pile.

A teenage boy on a rider mower has tied his shirt around his waist, his chest fragile as glass. I wonder if a grandchild of mine will sit here in another hundred years wondering about me.

I see Mrs. I tell my cousin about when Aunt Gail taught me to look after her newborn son. I was giving him a bath and he shot up a spume of pee that landed right in my eyes.

Aunt Gail laughed. I married the love of my life. In the change room, Martha Ray encourages me to put my bathing suit on.

So I strip. She has a white dab of suntan lotion on the end of her nose. Her third daughter lurks behind her. I lower myself into a chair and wish I had a beer, but Martha Ray has fed us all Kool-Aid so our lips are stained blue.

I feel ridiculously lonely in the middle of all this family. Martha Ray sighs. So, Becky, when are you admitting you made a big mistake moving to the west coast?

Granny always said that when she died, this family would fracture into a hundred bits. Martha Ray watches Rebecca go off the board, this time holding her knees in a cannonball.

And she was right. It did. Sticky, I say. She was really sticky. We were all kind of stuck to her and all the things she always wanted. This is what happiness looks like.

She narrows her eyes at me. Clearly Martha Ray is as skeptical as I am about this. For a minute, neither of us speaks. How could you just forget Granny?

I guess I can forgive you. And Granny surely forgives you. Martha Ray laughs. I saw you eat it. I never told. Well, sure, Martha Ray says.

I guess so. She struggles up and moves the whole operation further into the shade, tucking Dulcie Ann into a car seat. I roll over onto my stomach and watch her settle her jumbles of paraphernalia.

I look around at all the other swimmers with their beet-red noses and I wonder where they are all going when they leave this pool.

I look at her grinning towards me. Here we both are. I think about Mrs. Alteen again and my grandparents and aunt in the graveyard.

We all die, but before we die, we get this. Read our interview with Jane Eaton Hamilton. Photo credit. She lives in Vancouver.

Compose Journal A journal of simply good writing. Who is this dead person, anyhow? I say, giving her a peck on the cheek.

Our grandmother died of throat cancer, which my mother said served her right for being so bossy. Martha Ray looks around. Like I would know this.

I ask. Do you believe in heaven? Martha Ray frowns. Why are you asking that now? The priest pulls off his eyeglasses and rubs his nose. She had a son, I think.

Just one boy. My cowgirl boots are killing me and I realize I probably have actual blisters on my heel. The priest raises his eyebrows like he sees through me.

I sit guiltily back down. What is it? He looks up at us expectantly. Throw it now! I say, She was my favourite aunt.

Martha Ray stares at me. She was your only aunt, Becky, for crying out loud. Martha Ray says, My mom should have lived longer.

She is lucky. It occurs to me: someone else married the love of my life. I like my job. I stretch out my legs with my unfortunate ankles, swollen and sore.

Granny was bang on, is the thing. She said she was the glue that held this family together. You should have come home.

I say it again. Lay off now. Gee, I say, thanks tons. I am happier than I am miserable, Martha Ray, at least. I left him, okay?

I just wanted to remember Granny alive. You know: In a coma. Subdued, but not quite dead. Any additional comments?

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Loading video Play video again. Buy License Upload your video. Next video.. Smoke from Creek Fire engulfs Calif Play next video. Uploaded by a Newsflare Content Partner.

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Description A fast-moving wildfire, named the Creek Fire broke out in the Sierra National Forest, about miles north of Los Angeles, which was first detected on Friday, September 5 night, and rapidly grew to at least 45, acres by Sunday morning.

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