There was a different crowd at the Grand tonight. The musicians consisted of two guitars augmented with computers.
John came into the bar with an entourage of mostly young women. The women in the group were dressed in colorful winter clothes.
I heard him remark to a friend, “And to think I even got dressed up for the occasion.”
He led his entourage to the table that has the worst acoustics in the saloon.
When I was in my early twenties, I left the States for southern Africa. For the next three years I didn’t see any of my family.
The only manner of communicating with “old” friends was the old-fashioned-way — by letter. And I wasn’t much of a letter writer.
My mother was a faithful letter writer. She gave me news from “home”, but this news was of a historical type. No idle gossip, such as Betty is a little too friendly with the Catholic boys, or the new pastor’s sermons are too long. These are things that the locals learned by observation, and through conversations.
When I finally returned from southern Africa, my parents showed up to greet me at the airport. I anxiously looked for my parents. Dad was easy to spot, but where was my Mother? For just an instant, I wondered who was the lady with my Dad. Of course, she was my Mother. Even before I left for southern Africa, she had used Lady Clairol to cover her gray locks.
This is not a tid-bit that a mother would be likely to share with a son.