turn into butter...

I remember my grand father. He sat in the evenings in a wing back, beside a lamp and smoked cigarettes. I remember studying his end table lighter decorated with age of discovery maps, kaki with charcoal and oxblood details. He would hand us the occasional radish wafers cut by a razor sharp old timer, his hands smelling of gasoline and Brute cologne, probably the same cologne that came from a Avon novelty stock car of blue glass in the bathroom, next to the dollar bill toilet paper holder radio combo. He would encourage my sister and I to chase these little radish bites with a salty sip from his Shlitz can dewey with icebox chill. After his passing, my grandmother cleared the yard of his aluminum can pyramids, got 300 dollars for the whole load.
I remember my grandmother and her telling me of the Sambo story. I remember the part about the tigers chasing teach other until the tigers turned into butter. There was a restraunt in Orange Park we use to go to with my grandparents called Sambos that served blueberry pancakes. As I got older, I realized that Sambo was derogatory term toward black americans. I think that is why the restaurant is called Denny's now. There is an REM song Begin the Begin that makes reference to the story of the tigers...