Why I live in the country

Here’s another anecdote where I wish I had a tape recorder. Dad was standing on the back porch gazing at the sunset. With the onset of winter and the death of the underbrush, we could barely see through the oak trees to our neighbor’s property, which lie over a quarter mile away. He took a long sip of his beer, and smiled with a contended exhale.

“Wanna know why I live in the country, son?” he said.

I remained silent.

The old man stood from his lawn chair and unzipped his pants. “So I could piss off my own back porch.”

The sound of trickling water filled the silence.

“You pissed off the porch when we lived in the city,” I said.

“I know, son. I know.” He zipped his pants, grinned, patted my shoulder, and went inside.

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