Posted on October 26, 2017
Hannah B Thompson
Hannah B. is my aunt, age indeterminate. She has lived on the island since before the Second Great War to End All Wars. To keep and inhabit her little bit of paradise, she has resisted eminent domain, hurricanes, tropical depressions, tourists, the Dixie mafia, and police on the payroll of said mafia.
Home is an old school Florida shotgun shack that has grown piece by piece over the years. She incorporated amenities like running water and electricity sometime in the 50’s. Of late, a 54-inch flat screen TV covers the western wall. I have never caught her watching the television except on Sunday evening when, if invited, I join her to share a bottle of wine and a British period piece on PBS. She says she can’t stand to have it on any other time. Desperate pseudo-dramatics bandied about by the exceptionally stupid for the criminally inane. I don’t watch much either. I do listen to the Cubs on the internetz radio. I miss Brickhouse, I even came to grips with Caray, Santo always made me hungry, but I like this Pat, he’s got a nice voice.