And so, Happy St. Patrick's Day! It's actually been a beautiful day with a visit to the Bell Light Box where we saw Pina in 3D - it was incredible.
Unfortunately, the crowds on the street were less than worthy of truly joining the Club of Irish - with their loutish, behaviour - Oh, to be young again - and not like them - this time...
The movie was brilliant, we had a wonderful night out - and then I remembered - I have to compose a blog entry. This is it - though the meat of it, that which follows, was written awhile ago. I place it here now as filler - since it's far too late to write something original at this hour (11:52pm) - but at least I'm posting an entry, eh! And "Happy Saint Patrick's Day!"
“I’ve got about three more barrels to load on the cart, Jimmy.” Mr. Henderson pulled a bandana out of his back pocket, took off his beat up old cowboy hat and mopped at his forehead. He sighed wearily as he held the damp cloth over his face and scrunched up his eyes.
“That sun is a killer today, boy.” He let his hand slip to the back of his neck and rest there as he stretched his head back and looked up into the sky.
Jimmy was standing in the back of the cart and only grunted a response to Mr. Henderson’s remark. He was just too doggone tired and hot to do much more than that.
He sure did appreciate the momentary break though 'cause the sun was indeed killing him – that is, if his back didn’t do the job first. He wiped his own forehead with the back of his sleeve and stood swaying in the heat.
If it hadn’t been for his father insisting on his helping ol’ man Henderson he would be off with the other boys to the quarry. He let himself drift away for a moment as he thought about the cool green-black depth of that water and how much he’d love to be there right now.
“Whatchya thinkin’ bout, boy?” Mr. Henderson’s eye had drifted from the clouds that were building on the horizon and he stood half smiling at the son of his best friend.
Jimmy came out of his reverie and looked down at the fat old man who stood below him, his hair white and sparse on the top of his bull-like head.
For a man of 70, he was still as fit as any 40 year old and there’d been times when he’d had to prove it at the bar, where you generally wouldn’t find many decent folks, but for a man raised round these parts, and used to the rough and tumble life of a farmer and all around ranch hand, one might say it was home.
Not that he had much else in the way of comfort when it came to that whole notion of rooftops, parlours and picket fences. Ever since his wife died some 30 years before, he’d sorta let the place run to hell and he’d got used to living with the leaks both in his ramshackle house and his dignity; the neat edges having long ago slipped into ruin.
Still, he was a nice enough fellow and he’d grown up with Jimmy’s dad so the feelings ran deep.
“Aw, nuthin’ really.” He said, embarrassed that Mr. Henderson might suspect his longing to be away from the heat and the dust of this infernal keg-loading.
“You dreamin’ about your sweetheart?” The old man laughed and tucked the handkerchief into the back pocket of his faded overalls. He slapped his hat against his thigh to rid it of whatever dust hadn’t caked on with the sweat and placed it back on his head.
Jimmy hated it when these old guys prodded him about girls. At 17 he was awkward and had yet to get up the nerve to ask a girl out on a real date. Oh, sure there’d been the occasional stolen kiss but that was usually all in fun and there had never really been anyone special. Least not for him...
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