The old man, as always, listened to the radio before retiring for the night. A double play reminiscent of those made famous by the Tinker to Evers to Chance poem written just over two decades earlier ended the Cardinals broadcast and he had grown tired of hearing more static than music. He climbed into his side of the bed and settled in the cavity of the mattress he had shared with his wife, his Beth, for the better part of their 45-year marriage. The staccato melody of the crickets just outside the screened window helped put him to sleep in short order.
After only a few hours he awoke. A lifetime of toiling in his fields and working at the lumber yard in the town miles away had left his body a repository of pain, and sleep without interruption was only a memory. He arose so as to not awaken his Beth and entered the kitchen with his wealth of time. By now the lone station he could receive and his only link to another world had signed off for the night. His eyes had long ago grown too weak to read without the glasses he and his Beth could ill afford so he would settle again for the pastime that had become his during these hours. He would go to his wood shop and whittle.
(For an article on biscuits & gravy in Dallas restaurants, click here.)
No comments:
Post a Comment