I just read my friend Dart’s new story. (I usually change people’s names here, but “Dart” is just too good not to use.) Aside from producing a truly moving story about grief, he uses some great down-home language in his dialogue. “Good night,” people say in exclamation, and one character is said to “give people static.” This brings back memories of my older relatives and the times we would travel to their small towns. Looking back, I see a kind of joy there, though they wouldn’t call it that. But they took pleasure in kidding around, repeating the same jokes and stories for decades. Calling a chicken leg a “drumstick,” or my Yogi Bear lunch box a “dinner bucket.” When my father died, we discovered copies of a very short run of a family newsletter my great-aunt and her husband published (they were printers and owned their own press). There, my father wrote as a young boy about the new scout knife he had received as a gift. He described it as “keen.” As my grandfather used to say, that tickles me.