Apple Cider Vinegar
As a boy, I didn’t smoke in the henhouse with Terry and Jerry, didn’t play strip poker with Jan and Jed, Holly and Pikey in our shed of spruce poles and cardboard deep in the woods near the Indian steps rising in the rock cliff to heaven or at least to Old Man Way’s house. And that was something else I didn’t do: call the old man the Old Man. I learned catechism for Sunday school, tied knots for Boy Scouts, memorized English Kings so my brain would grow, and when Dex said he’d replace my broken hockey stick, I believed him. I believed everything Dex said.