It was while having a good old clear out of unworn clothes and going through boxes which had remain unopened for years that I came across the crisply folded, yet faintly yellowing, neatly typed poem.
I'm Just Saying
During a Zoom call with Paul to his family the conversational ball was being bandied about so frequently that attempting to keep up was nearly futile. Non-sequitors in and out of subjects were the norm but somehow the topic of babysitting came up and everyone had a story to share.
Perhaps it is because both my grandfathers were dead long before I was born, or ever a glimmer in anyone’s eye, but I do feel a slight twinge of envy when I observe that loving bond between Grandpas, Opas, or Papas and their grandchildren.
Let me make this clear: I’m a ‘live and let live’ sorta gal—to the point where I will scoop a drowning Japanese beetle out of the water trough or step in and break up an assault by a hornet upon a horse fly. And I despise horse flies.
Man alive, just when I was feeling at my most world-weary, battered over daily political theater, chalking up yet another Covid-related death in our small town while despairing over those who still refuse to wear masks in public places, comes a story that hit me right in the ‘feels.’
Did you feel it??” friends were shrieking, on social media, email and through the phone. “Earthquake!!”
“They said it was a 5.1!!”
“It knocked over three of Momma’s Hummells and the Barney won’t come out from under the bed!”
Each weekend Paul and I have turned into a regular Ma and Pa Kettle, setting off on Sunday excursions to get off the farm for a change of scenery.
If we remain in South Carolina, we search for that rarest of venues come noon: a restaurant with outdoor seating and a staff who protects themselves and the public by wearing masks.
Since writing about Carl the toad I have received a flood of enquiries asking if I still see him on my way to the barn this morning, how he is weathering the heat, and if Steve the snake has shown up.
If there’s one thing you can say about America it is that we are a land of ingenuity.
If there’s one thing that gives any woman of ‘a certain age’ a little boost, it’s being asked to show identification when buying beer at a mini-mart. Especially if you conveniently allow yourself to forget that it’s mandatory for any customer, and, no, frankly, you don’t appear to be under 21.