A mind trying to recover from a night's drinking, the following morning can and more often than not is, a black chaos-naturally, not everybody understands this. I don't think my mother could. I lived on York Street, on the Eastside of St. Paul, Minnesota, it was 1967, late fall. I heard the horn honk, it was my mother with her boyfriend, Earnest Brandt, they both worked at Swift's Meats, in South St. Paul, they came to pick me up, this being the 3rd month of my employment, working for them. No sooner thought than done, I rolled out of my bed, in my studio apartment, flung my clothes off a hanger, in the closet, wiped my feet on a clean rug on an unusually dirty floor, and duplicated my morning a hundred times over, meaning, I would take the ride to work, I worked on the Hog-kill assembly line. My mother was a Meatpacker, she had worked there at Swift's going on twenty-two years, Earnest her boyfriend, thirty-years.



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