Huey (Hughie?)

I remember a house opposite a playground. On the corner was a metal hulk that, I was told, contained a basketball court. It had windows of dark glass very high up. They looked like they were blinking. I never went inside but I knew it was a basketball court because at night I could hear an umpire's whistle and the thud of many running, jumping feet.

Inside the house was green scratchy carpet, and a wood stove. We opened the door beside the oven to cook toast on winter mornings. On each piece two white stripes where the prongs of the long-handled fork shielded the bread from the flame. They finished at the punctures. If you didn't keep your hand very still the bread around the holes would fall away, making bigger holes that meant it was harder to keep your toast from falling into the fire. And often mine did.

In the summer, though, my grandfather would walk to the back screen door during a storm. Send her down, Huey, he'd say, shouting it above the sound of the large drops on the tin roof. Me: Who's Huey? Him (lifting his chin): Oh, that fella up there.