Chapters (42)
- Cover Page
- PRAISE FOR FRANK SCHAEFFER’S PORTOFINO
- PRAISE FOR FRANK SCHAEFFER’S SAVING GRANDMA
- Portofino
- Copyright Page
- Author’s Note:
- Portofino
- 1962
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- 1965
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
Now I was glad we had gone hiking while the girls sat on the beach. Dad only asked me once on every vacation to go with him. And I always forgot how much I really liked our hikes until we were back up in the hills again. Dad and I would finally get up to the top of the mountain range that ringed our bay and find the Roman road that followed the spine of the mountain. We could walk side by side because the Romans had made the road wide enough for a chariot, whereas the lower trails were just for donkeys with a man walking behind who hit the donkey when it slowed down or stopped to graze from some bush or the low branches of a fig tree.
Dad and I walked in silence for about the first hour. Then we came to a farmhouse with some chickens in the dusty yard in front. A big black dog ran to the end of its chain barking at us. The chain made it flip over backward when it played out and jerked the dog to a stop. The farmer came out and yelled at the dog, then it stopped barking and got all humble and sad so its head drooped down between its shoulders and its tail curled between its legs. When it turned around to slink away, I noticed that it had something wrong with its private parts. One of its testicles was about the size of a grapefruit. It was all pushed out behind its hind legs since there was no room for it to hang down where it was supposed to be.
“No wonder it’s in a bad mood,” said Dad. Then he winked at me. This was the sort of thing Dad and I could say when the girls stayed with Mom and we hiked alone. If they had been along, we all would have pretended we didn’t see what was wrong with the dog. With me and Dad alone we could say exactly what we thought. If I needed to pee I’d just say right out, “Gotta take a leak, Pop,” and he’d stand in the path or even say, “See if you can hit that rock down there.”
If Mom had been along then I’d have said, “Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom, Mom.” Then she and the girls would have all looked at each other and smiled a little, and Mom would have said, “That’s quite all right, dear, we’ll just go on ahead and wait.”