9 Piece Dining Tables : Accent Console Tables : Rolling Coffee Table.

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Kitchen table with rolling chairs. Round black kitchen table

Kitchen Table With Rolling Chairs

kitchen table with rolling chairs

  • rolled: uttered with a trill; "she used rolling r's as in Spanish"

  • peal: a deep prolonged sound (as of thunder or large bells)

  • (of land) Extending in gentle undulations

  • the act of robbing a helpless person; "he was charged with rolling drunks in the park"

  • Moving by turning over and over on an axis

  • Done or happening in a steady and continuous way

  • Act as chairperson of or preside over (an organization, meeting, or public event)

  • (chair) act or preside as chair, as of an academic department in a university; "She chaired the department for many years"

  • Carry (someone) aloft in a chair or in a sitting position to celebrate a victory

  • (chair) a seat for one person, with a support for the back; "he put his coat over the back of the chair and sat down"

  • (chair) professorship: the position of professor; "he was awarded an endowed chair in economics"

The Breakout

The Breakout

"It had been three weeks since the cows busted out."

"And the bull, Mother. Don't forget the bull."

"Right. The bull." Mother shook her head and took a long drag on her smoke. It was hand rolled, filterless, soft and slightly limp. Curly brown bits of tobacco stuck to her lipstick. Now and then she'd spit them off, towards the floor, with a little p-choo sound.

"How could I forget the bull. It never would've happened without him. Things like that don't happen by accident you know. They take..." she laughed, and the laugh turned into a hoarse cough. When she recovered, she laughed again and said, "They take balls!"

"So," the reporter asked, "what exactly happened?"

"Well," said Mother. "Like I said, they busted out."

"We think it was the bull's fault," the son said quietly.

"Indeed," said Mother. "Someone busted right through that rail fence, and I just can't believe our girls would do anything that violent."

The reporter looked skeptical. She had heard the stories; had heard all about the Mother's cows and what they'd done.

"I mean," said Mother. "I mean I can't imagine our girls doing anything violent like that to a non-living thing. To just rush a fence like that... and destroy it. It's just not..." she took another long drag, "just not in the Jersey psyche."

Jerseys, Mother continued, were the most beautiful cows of all - both aesthetically and in their dispositions. "Look into those big brown eyes and tell me if you see violence," she challenged. "It's just not there. They don't have it in them. And yet..." she trailed off, stubbed out her smoke and starting rolling another one.

"Okay then," the reporter said, squirming a bit in her chair. "What about the children then? How do you explain it?"

Mother and son exchanged a look. "Self defence," replied the mother. "I got nothing against children." She gestured to the son. "I raised this one, didn't I?"

The son blushed and looked at his lap. "Them town kids are different," he said.

"That's right!" Mother slammed one hand on the kitchen table. "Town kids." She spit towards the floor. "Good for nothing. They don't know. They don't understand. They don't..." and here she leaned in close, breathing smoky, fetid, toothless breath in the reporter's face... "They. Don't. Appreciate."

Images of children in bank vaults, sitting idly, not earning interest, flashed through the reporter's head and for a fleeting instant she almost laughed. Mother didn't notice, and continued with her story.

"Those town kids. They think food comes from the Safeway. They have no respect. No respect at all for other living creatures. Do you know what they were doing that night? Did you hear? Did you get THAT from your sources?" And she sneered. The local media had, for weeks now, been running stories built on fear and innuendo... quoting so-called anonymous sources. The children had been trampled. The children had been eaten. The children had been regurgitated and rechewed, like so much cud. Bones - small, child sized bones - had been found in the manure pile.

All of this was, in fact, true. But Mother wasn't about to admit it. "Do you know what those kids were doing?" she asked again.

"They came across the cows in the graveyard."

"And the bull," said the son. "Don't forget the bull."

"Right," said the Mother. "They came across the cows - and the bull - in the graveyard. And they..." She started sobbing. "They sexually abused them!"

That too, was true. The children - mostly boys - had poked long pointed sticks into the cows from behind. And then tried inserting many other, various things... including bits of their own anatomy. This was known because certain bits of certain boys had remained in situ, once it was all over.

"We can only reckon what happened after that, but it seems to me the bull took exception." Mother shrugged. Sighed. Wiped at her tears with big rough hands. Things had been so difficult since the incident with the children. "We think it must've been the bull who turned the whole event on its ear," she said. "Attackers becoming the attacked. Like that." And she stood and walked away from the table.

"What about...?" the reporter wanted details, wanted something new.

But Mother stood at the kitchen sink, looking out the window and announced, "I'm sorry. The interview is over."

The reporter stood, gathered her things and couldn't help feeling... in spite of it all.... empathy for the old woman. She'd lost her herd; lost her livelihood; was now reviled by an entire community... and, on to

Bobby in the kitchen

Bobby in the kitchen

Mom: This must have been the first day he came home. We had to go into Brooklyn to pick him up; evidently the case worker flew in from Miami. And she must've gone to Angel Guardian, where we picked him up. It wasn't like he stayed there, because I was amazed the little baby was soaking wet and nobody changed his diaper. And then they gave me a bottle that he traveled on the plane with, and it was about a quarter full, and that's all the gave me to take home, and the poor little baby was so hungry and upset he cried all the way home. And you have to understand in those days, babies were on formula, there were only two or three, and they were very specific, and you couldn't substitute one with another. And the way Angel Guardian did it, they didn't tell you what formula he needed until you got there, so you then had to go to a store and buy it. So when we got home, Daddy ran to the store to get the formula, and Bobby had been changed and cleaned, and had an outfit put on him.

kitchen table with rolling chairs

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