When It’s Not All True – Fiction

Something I worked on a bit more just now…more Buck and Sissy…I’ll share it:

When It’s Not All True

When Buck’s dad died, we auctioned off the stuff on the upper two floors of the old place,  and closed those up.  For a time,  Buck and I settled into the first floor.

On the one hand, Buck was grateful for the estate manager hired to handle all the logistics.  On the other hand, everything and every piece of anything had a story.  That’s the way it goes.  Sometimes the telling is just simply grander.

It wasn’t true that Mark Twain had danced in the second floor ballroom of the old house.  It wasn’t true that Jelly Roll Morton  had played the piano in the double parlor.  Ernest Hemingway had not spent a month living on the third floor that overlooked the magnolia orchard and the river.  He had only come over for supper one evening.

On auction day,  just before the roll top desk went up for bid, Buck motioned the auction house owner over to where we were standing.  “Be sure to mention that, according to rumor and legend, Hemingway used this desk.”  Then he looked at me and winked.  He might have even been smirking.

Ellespeth

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