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Yabba Dabba Doo

  Yabba Dabba Doo Read this essay, as published in Watermark in August, 2020   When I was of preschool age, I had an affinity for the Flintstones. Looking back, it must have been the combination of bright colors with disparate sounds at varying volumes that held four-year-old me’s attention. Even today, when flipping through channels, I’m immediately thunderstruck by Dino’s shrill bark, Wilma’s fluttering giggle, Fred’s prehistorically Brooklyn-esque,”Bahhhh-neeee,” and Bam Bam’s thunderous, “BAM *pause* BAM.” I stick around for purple dinosaurs, pepto (rock) pink houses,   and bright blue skies. I consumed it with the same trusting eyes and ears that saw and heard adults in the real-life foreground as they fed me sugar cubes as treats and spoons-full of Robitussin to sedate me.   Few family get-togethers pass without reference to that time when I climbed up on the counter in my grandparents’ kitchen and consumed a handful of Flintstone’s vitamins. I didn’t poop for a couple days,

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