The Debate

I was eight and my brother was seven. We were close to the same height, but I figured I was smarter than Sonny. We were camping in the southern part of the country and I remember we were staying in a cabin. This was strange because we usually stayed in our tent. Sonny and I were doing the dishes when we started to argue, about what, I don’t remember. We were getting quite loud and Daddy told us we had better quit this nonsense or the people who own the cabins will make us get out.

That scared us good, mostly because we liked the cabin better than the tent. So, we quieted down but kept on fighting. He had the dishtowel and I had the dishrag. We had quite a fight! I was hitting him with the wet dishrag, which I purposely didn’t wring out very well. He swung the dishtowel as hard as he could at me. Daddy finally came to put a stop to our fight. He was a pretty good moderator.

I don’t know why that fight came to mind last night, during the debate. Isn’t a debate the same as a fight? I’m not sure who won in our fight, but Daddy sure was a good moderator. We had red butts to prove it. Daddy died quite a few years ago. Otherwise he might give red butts to two other butts who called what they were doing, a Debate! It was real hard to understand what they were saying. Even the Moderator was not nearly as good as Daddy was. What do you think?