We were eighteen kids and we lived with Grandpa Bud. Grandpa Bud was great. That is, was strong. I mean, not great in the sense of huge, that big, not as strong as one that has a lot of muscles. It was, is, we liked. Sometimes we tell stories. Here is one of the stories his grandfather Bud.
I knew who collected a mug - and here was a break to turn his huge pipe, this pipe was huge, crazy - dried frogs. In the summer a lot of frogs and toads cross the road and the crushing machines. Then they dry in the sun and make a noise like cardboard. Yuck, we said. And my grandfather continued: Well, it was such collection. He walked along the roads out of town with a sack over his shoulder and every time a frog was dry, which was then almost always only the toads, pulled her up and shoved into the sack. Then attach all of these frogs dry on the walls of his house, that were then almost all toads. Frogs have been there a lot to say three or four.
prompted to specify the number of frogs collected from the type, the grandfather said, four thousand! Then he added, but now I will certainly at least a hundred thousand, because there I am telling stories that happened before the war.
We never said that war.
