Thursday, August 19, 2004
A Fascinating Conversation
I was at lunch at Dee's, in Fincastle, Virginia.
Dee's is a phenomenon worthy of several stories of it's own. It is pretty much the only viable lunch place in town. On days when the county court is in session, several of the lawyers may be in attendance. On other days, the table is ruled by those who have found honest work. The conversations range far and wide, and the slow cadence of southern accents disguises sharp wits and a love of verebal rough and tumble.
Today's treat was unexpected. While I was eating my lunch, Alice Crowder called me over to meet an elderly man standing in the middle of the small restaraunt floor. He was a tall man, whose spine was no longer quite straight, either front to back or side to side. He wore a Stetson which had some dirt on the brim but still appeared to be cared for. He supported himself with a cane in his right hand, and frequently steadied himself by holding my upper arm with is left.
Alice beamed. "Patrick, do you remember this man?"
I did not. "You're going to have to help me."
"This is Bruce Friend." She deemed this sufficient introduction, and disappeared back into the kitchen, her mission accomplished.
I scrolled through my memories of Fincastle. David Friend, the catcher on my Little League baseball team, lived out on the Blacksburg Road, on the north side of the road before you got to the Wheatland Road.
"I played Little League baseball with David Friend. That your boy?"
"My boy David is 50 years old now." Shakes his head. "Lives far away from here. Calls me every year. He's a good boy."
"My girl lives in Hawaii. She calls me twice a year. I haven't been to see her. Can't swim, I just know how to wade, and I reckon it would get too deep."
"You do any ropin', boy?"
It really made me feel good to be called "boy". It isn't every day that I am viewed as young, and it was said in an affectionate manner rather than as a diminutive.
(e-mail system warns me it is timing out -- I will send this to capture it and begin the next installment)
Dee's is a phenomenon worthy of several stories of it's own. It is pretty much the only viable lunch place in town. On days when the county court is in session, several of the lawyers may be in attendance. On other days, the table is ruled by those who have found honest work. The conversations range far and wide, and the slow cadence of southern accents disguises sharp wits and a love of verebal rough and tumble.
Today's treat was unexpected. While I was eating my lunch, Alice Crowder called me over to meet an elderly man standing in the middle of the small restaraunt floor. He was a tall man, whose spine was no longer quite straight, either front to back or side to side. He wore a Stetson which had some dirt on the brim but still appeared to be cared for. He supported himself with a cane in his right hand, and frequently steadied himself by holding my upper arm with is left.
Alice beamed. "Patrick, do you remember this man?"
I did not. "You're going to have to help me."
"This is Bruce Friend." She deemed this sufficient introduction, and disappeared back into the kitchen, her mission accomplished.
I scrolled through my memories of Fincastle. David Friend, the catcher on my Little League baseball team, lived out on the Blacksburg Road, on the north side of the road before you got to the Wheatland Road.
"I played Little League baseball with David Friend. That your boy?"
"My boy David is 50 years old now." Shakes his head. "Lives far away from here. Calls me every year. He's a good boy."
"My girl lives in Hawaii. She calls me twice a year. I haven't been to see her. Can't swim, I just know how to wade, and I reckon it would get too deep."
"You do any ropin', boy?"
It really made me feel good to be called "boy". It isn't every day that I am viewed as young, and it was said in an affectionate manner rather than as a diminutive.
(e-mail system warns me it is timing out -- I will send this to capture it and begin the next installment)
