Feast Day of St. John-Francis Regis.
Patron Saint of lace makers. Marriage. And illegitimate children. Don’t ask me what the connections therein are, I just report what I’ve seen, observed, or, at the very least read someplace.
I was on that final leg of a walking tour, just drifting past Jo’s, and I heard that “Kramer! Kramer!” from a nondescript vehicle. Dave, the Aries, and his Taurus date, we chatted for a spell, “Where’d you meet her?”
Quick as a flash, without skipping a beat, “I picked him up in bar,” she answered before the Aries chum had a chance to say anything.
As the story began to unfold, while I started to disrobe, okay, so all I did was set my coffee and pastry down long enough to yank the shirt off my back, I learned that Dave’s new friend was originally from Midland. Which then launched a series of superlatives from me about women from West Texas.
All of this occurred before the afternoon rain, and before I ever had a chance to leave for Dallas. Where I am now. Which has nothing to do with anything. Sister should be in soon. Then the fun begins.
