Page 10

By Jack Joseph Smith

one anouther. if you have your sled going fast enough down one hill, you may go half way up the other one. Now that will be enough talk. I'm able to hear your father getting ready to come down. My father looked happy wiffing fried crisp potatoes and onions and bacon. And I could see their aroma drifting across that kitchen kind of air. My mother pushed the potatoes and onions to the side of the skilet with the spatula, and lifted the bacon out on to paper towels dropping two eggs into the remaining grease. We were greeted by my father, while my mother spooned the grease over the yokes of his eggs. "Good morning mom. Good morning Michael." My mother said, "it's time for the bathroom Michael. Now hurry up. Your father is ready for his breakfast." We used the same small table and chair morning after morning, and there was always a feeling of a rhythm I must follow. I finished my orange juce and hummed my way out of the kitchen through the little square-wooden hall, with big coats hanging for winter in the opened closet. There was a big old mirror there with two moveable sides that hung over and antique wall desk. I would glance at myself walking by it and then flip my fine hair back walking into the living room. Runing up the stairs I heard her call, "Nursery school in fifteen minutes and don't make your father late for work." "Hurry Michael, your fathers finished his breakfast." I buttoned my knickers with my but on the bannister coming down the stairs, and was checked for warmpth and neatness. My mother opened the door to frost and soft thin snow left from the night. My father was in the car with the windshield wipers wapping the window corners and the steam struggling from the

Original Scan

Page 10

AI Interpretation

GPT

Breakfast with bacon, potatoes, eggs, mirrors, coats, and nursery-school hurry turns a snowy morning into a strict family rhythm led by both parents.

Michael smells the breakfast cooking, passes the hall mirror and buttons his knickers while coming down the stairs. He describes a rhythm he must follow as his parents prepare for school and work. The mother opens the door onto frost and thin snow while his father waits in the car.

Claude

The mother finishes explaining Hickey's Hill and stops the talk as the father comes down to a breakfast of 'fried crisp potatoes and onions and bacon', with eggs dropped 'into the remaining grease' and grease spooned 'over the yokes of his eggs'. Michael is sent to the bathroom, hums through the hall past the big old mirror, is called to hurry for nursery school, buttons his knickers on the bannister, and goes out to frost and his father's car.

The page is a routine made of smell, sound, and timing: the skillet, the greetings, the calls up the stairs, and 'a rhythm I must follow.' Small private moments, like flipping 'my fine hair back' in the hall mirror, show the child finding himself inside the family schedule. The closing image of wipers 'wapping the window corners' and struggling steam carries the warm kitchen out into a cold morning.