There's a red metal milk jug circa 1920 sitting in the corner of mom's kitchen, a relic from G'dad. It stands just next to the north window, toward the river, and on top, typically, sits a coaster for mom's coffee. This is Vivian's drum, the coaster her drumstick. The sound is a low-bass hollow thump, the kind that tickles the stomach. And it seems to bring a laugh up from her little potbelly.
