Point of View

          Herman Pipper mumbled and grumbled his way into the living room. Flopping on the sofa, he complained aloud, “Dratted kids. They always muck up the yard. They never come to visit without leaving something broken or wrecked.”

          “Why, Herman, what a horrible thing to say about your own grandchildren,” his wife Violet fussed. “You’re ... you’re ... why, you’re nothing but dyspeptic.”

          “There you go again, using those high flouting words you know I can’t understand.” His frown deepened. “You do that on purpose just ‘cause you know I don’t like it.”

          “You are always complaining, never happy, always look at the ‘bad’ side of things.” Violet made quotation marks with her fingers when she said the word bad. “You emulsify negative thoughts and actions until you become one with them.”

          Herman jumped to his feet. “You are determined to drive me to distraction, woman. I can’t take any more of your big words.” He stomped out of the room, and a few minutes later, a door slammed in the back of the house.

          “Hmmm ... if he can mope and gripe all the time, I can get even by using words he doesn't understand.” Violet chuckled as she returned to a television program about the demography found in the changes of social security burdens on the generations since its start.

          Meanwhile, Herman sat on the back porch swing watching three of his grandsons play catch. He smothered a groan when Timmy ran into a rose bed to snatch a high flying ball. I’m not a whatever it is she called me. Wish I could understand her half the time.

          “Hi, Grandpa.” Ross, the oldest of his grandchildren, joined Herman on the swing. “You look like you’re having some deep thoughts.”

          “Humph, just wondering what your grandma called me this time.” The old man allowed a small smile to escape. “She sure does confuse me at times.”

          The teenaged boy laughed. “Oh, Grandpa, don’t you know that’s the idea? She tries to get you to think about something other than what you’re griping about.”

          The smile on Herman’s face disappeared completely. “You think that’s what she’s doing?”

          Ross laughed louder. “I know that’s what she’s doing. It works, doesn’t it?”

          Herman studied the boy beside him a moment. “You know, it does. I plumb forget what I’m complaining about and start snapping at her using those big words.” He rose from the swing. “I think I have some thinking to do.” He rumpled the boy’s dark hair as he passed.

          Later that evening, after the grandchildren had left, Herman and Violet sat watching their favorite detective series. During a commercial, Herman cleared his throat before speaking. “Uh, Violet, I owe you an apology.”

          His wife’s eyes widened as she gazed at her husband of forty years. “You do?”

          “Yes, my dear, I now realize that my influx of amorphous, confluent complaints have been a constant flood of abuse.” He kept his sight on the wall beside the television until he heard her chortle of laugher.

          “Why, you old goat. You’ve been studying the dictionary.” She giggled like a young girl when he chuckled.

          Herman reached over and took her small hand into his ham-sized one. “Sorry I’ve been so dyspeptic. I’m going to work on that. I don’t like making everyone around me miserable, really.” He kissed her hand. “Forgive me? Think the kids will?”

          The smile that Violet gave him warmed his heart as she answered, “We love you. Of course we will. To be on the safe side, though, I’m still going to carry a dictionary with me.”


Word count: 521

Note: Words in bold had to be used in the story about a dyspeptic person. This short, short was for The Writer's Cramp.