Should be an entry about old men.
My farther, Pa Wetzel, as he is referred to, was in town. He had some kind of business to attend, meetings and seminars, then we picked him up for coffee, a movie, and later, for breakfast.
I’d go on and on about the movie, “Good night and good luck,” but I’m sure it’s covered by others. In part, though, listening to my father talk about the time, the proceedings, and his recollections was good. What he liked, what he didn’t like.
The singular event, though, was the coffee shop. Pop has a new walker he’s using, the post-polio stress is finally catching up. He’d been to see a physical therapist, had bunch of tests, and the therapist told Pa, I got this third-hand, “that he shouldn’t even be walking, but, she’d seen many of the polio survivors do things that she shouldn’t be able to do.”
So in the typical Austin hang-out, Pa was just wheeling around on his walker, sporting a jaunty Fedora, wearing a shirt Sister made. Sartorial splendor might be hereditary. I’m ordering drinks, Pop wheels around, checks it all out, then motors outside to get a table. Two women, I’d suspect much younger than him, pay special attention to him, then get up before I’ve ordered drinks, and wander outside, pausing to flirt with my father.
Out of my control for all of a minute, and his picking up women. I wonder if I should tell my mother.
Sunday night, after Pa had called to let me know he was first in Waco, then all the way home, I was clicking around, trying to avoid football news. I hit a local Sagittarius web-journal, one that I’ll read from time to time because the stories, although intermittent, can be quite captivating. There’s a way that some writers can just spin a yarn that I so enjoy. Fleming’s Bait, next to “Mom’s Baitstand.”
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