Free Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

he might develop an interest in computers. Three weeks into
     the semester, Paul dropped out, and my father, convinced that his son’s lawn-mowing skills bordered on genius, set him up
     in the landscaping business. “I’ve seen him in action, and what he does is establish a pattern and really tackle it!”
    Eventually my brother fell into the floor-sanding business. It’s hard work, but he enjoys the satisfaction that comes with
     a well-finished rec room. He thoughtfully called his company Silly P’s Hardwood Floors, Silly P being the name he would have
     chosen were he a rap star. When my father suggested that the word
silly
might frighten away some of the upper-tier customers, Paul considered changing the name to Silly Fucking P’s Hardwood Floors.
     The work puts him in contact with plumbers and carpenters from such towns as Bunn and Clayton, men who offer dating advice
     such as “If she’s old enough to bleed, she’s old enough to breed.”
    “Old enough to what?” my father asks. “Oh, Paul, those aren’t the sort of people you need to be associating with. What are
     you doing with hayseeds like that? The goal is to better yourself. Meet some intellectuals. Read a book!”
    After all these years our father has never understood that we, his children, tend to gravitate toward the very people he’s
     spent his life warning us about. Most of us have left town, but my brother remains in Raleigh. He was there when our mother
     died and still, years later, continues to help our father grieve: “The past is gone, hoss. What you need now is some motherfucking
     pussy.” While my sisters and I offer our sympathy long-distance, Paul is the one who arrives at our father’s house on Thanksgiving
     day, offering to prepare traditional Greek dishes to the best of his ability. It is a fact that he once made a tray of spanakopita
     using Pam rather than melted butter. Still, though, at least he tries.
    When a hurricane damaged my father’s house, my brother rushed over with a gas grill, three coolers full of beer, and an enormous
     Fuck-It Bucket — a plastic pail filled with jawbreakers and bite-size candy bars. (“When shit brings you down, just say ‘fuck
     it,’ and eat yourself some motherfucking candy.”) There was no electricity for close to a week. The yard was practically cleared
     of trees, and rain fell through the dozens of holes punched into the roof. It was a difficult time, but the two of them stuck
     it out, my brother placing his small, scarred hand on my father’s shoulder to say, “Bitch, I’m here to tell you that it’s
     going to be all right. We’ll get through this shit, motherfucker, just you wait.”

The Youth in Asia
    I N THE EARLY 1960s, during what my mother referred to as “the tail end of the Lassie years,” my parents were given two collies, which
     they named Rastus and Duchess. We were living in New York State, out in the country, and the dogs were free to race through
     the forest. They napped in meadows and stood knee-deep in frigid streams, costars in their own private dog-food commercial.
     According to our father, anyone could tell that the two of them were in love.
    Late one evening, while lying on a blanket in the garage, Duchess gave birth to a litter of slick, potato-size puppies. When
     it looked as though one of them had died, our mother arranged the puppy in a casserole dish and popped it in the oven, like
     the witch in Hansel and Gretel.
    “Oh, keep your shirts on,” she said. “It’s only set on two hundred. I’m not baking anyone, this is just to keep him warm.”
    The heat revived the sick puppy and left us believing that our mother was capable of resurrecting the dead.
    Faced with the responsibilities of fatherhood, Rastus took off. The puppies were given away and we moved south, where the
     heat and humidity worked against a collie’s best interests. Duchess’s once beautiful coat now hung in ragged patches. Age
     set in and she limped about the