I'm Just Saying

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.

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.