realize that people don’t go around naming little boys for a bump on a log.”
Boys! And because Puny’s father was long deceased, he would be their granpaw, just as he was granpaw to Puny and Joe Joe’s twin girls.
His entire chest felt suffused with a warm and radiating light.
He turned onto the state road, which had already been scraped for the school buses, and headed south past the Baptist church and its snow-covered brush arbor. He glanced at the wayside pulpit, which was changed weekly.
IF LOVING GOD WERE A CRIME, WOULD YOU BE IN JAIL?
Getting around was a piece of cake. The heavens had given them only a couple of inches, and in a farm truck built like a tank, he felt safe and thoroughly above it all.
Patently envious. Patently envious . What could a bigwig bishop, albeit his oldest friend, envy in a country parson? There it was again, the tape running in a loop and promising to work his mind into a lather.
“I roll this whole mystery over to You, Lord,” he said aloud, “and thank You for this day!”
In truth, the whole day belonged to him. He would stop by the hospital to see Puny and her new brood; he would run over to Hope House and visit Louella; he would make a noon stop at Lew Boyd’s Exxon where the Turkey Club was lately convening; he would have a chin-wag with Avis at The Local....
As for getting a haircut, he had no intention of trusting his balding head to Fancy Skinner ever again, period; Joe Ivy had retired from cutting hair and wanted nothing more to do with such a trade; trooping to the barber shop in Wesley would take too much time. So, no, indeed, absolutely not, there would be no haircut on this trip into civilization.
The sun broke through leaden clouds and flooded the countryside with a welcome light.
“Yee hah!” he shouted against the considerable din of the truck engine.
Why had he felt so bereft and grumpy only a half hour before, when he was now beginning to feel like a new man?
He switched on the radio to the blast of a country music station; it was golden oldies time.
“I bought th’ shoes that just walked out on me. . . .” someone sang. He sang along, hardly caring that he didn’t know the words.
“Country come to town!” he whooped as he drove into Mitford.
Roaring past the Exxon station, he blew the horn twice, just to let the general public know he’d arrived.
He bent and kissed her forehead.
“Well done,” he said, a lump in his throat. Two sets of twins! May God have mercy....
“They’re whoppers,” she said, smiling up at him.
His so-called house help of ten years, and the one whom he loved like a daughter, lay worn but beaming in the hospital bed.
He took her hand, feeling the rough palm that had come from years of scrubbing, polishing, cooking, washing, ironing, and generally making his life and Cynthia’s far simpler, not to mention indisputably brighter.
“Thank you for naming one of your fine boys after this old parson.”
“We won’t call ’im by th’ fancy name. It’ll jis’ be Timmy.”
“Timmy. I always liked it when Mother called me Timmy.”
“Timmy an’ Tommy,” she said, proudly.
“Timmy and Tommy and Sissy and Sassy.”
“You’ll be the boys’ granpaw, too,” she said, in case he hadn’t considered this.
“It’ll be an honor to be their granpaw.”
“Father?”
Since he’d officiated at her wedding several years ago, she had taken to calling him by his priestly title in a way that subtly claimed him as her true father. He never failed to note this. Blast, if he wasn’t about to bawl like baby. “Yes, my dear?”
“I sure do love you and Cynthy.”
There they came, rolling down his cheeks like a veritable gulley washer....
“And we sure do love you back,” he croaked.
“So, how’s the food at Hope House these days?”
He sat on the footstool by Louella’s rocking chair, feeling roughly eight or ten years old, as he always had in the presence of Miss Sadie and Louella.
“Oh, honey,
Boys! And because Puny’s father was long deceased, he would be their granpaw, just as he was granpaw to Puny and Joe Joe’s twin girls.
His entire chest felt suffused with a warm and radiating light.
He turned onto the state road, which had already been scraped for the school buses, and headed south past the Baptist church and its snow-covered brush arbor. He glanced at the wayside pulpit, which was changed weekly.
IF LOVING GOD WERE A CRIME, WOULD YOU BE IN JAIL?
Getting around was a piece of cake. The heavens had given them only a couple of inches, and in a farm truck built like a tank, he felt safe and thoroughly above it all.
Patently envious. Patently envious . What could a bigwig bishop, albeit his oldest friend, envy in a country parson? There it was again, the tape running in a loop and promising to work his mind into a lather.
“I roll this whole mystery over to You, Lord,” he said aloud, “and thank You for this day!”
In truth, the whole day belonged to him. He would stop by the hospital to see Puny and her new brood; he would run over to Hope House and visit Louella; he would make a noon stop at Lew Boyd’s Exxon where the Turkey Club was lately convening; he would have a chin-wag with Avis at The Local....
As for getting a haircut, he had no intention of trusting his balding head to Fancy Skinner ever again, period; Joe Ivy had retired from cutting hair and wanted nothing more to do with such a trade; trooping to the barber shop in Wesley would take too much time. So, no, indeed, absolutely not, there would be no haircut on this trip into civilization.
The sun broke through leaden clouds and flooded the countryside with a welcome light.
“Yee hah!” he shouted against the considerable din of the truck engine.
Why had he felt so bereft and grumpy only a half hour before, when he was now beginning to feel like a new man?
He switched on the radio to the blast of a country music station; it was golden oldies time.
“I bought th’ shoes that just walked out on me. . . .” someone sang. He sang along, hardly caring that he didn’t know the words.
“Country come to town!” he whooped as he drove into Mitford.
Roaring past the Exxon station, he blew the horn twice, just to let the general public know he’d arrived.
He bent and kissed her forehead.
“Well done,” he said, a lump in his throat. Two sets of twins! May God have mercy....
“They’re whoppers,” she said, smiling up at him.
His so-called house help of ten years, and the one whom he loved like a daughter, lay worn but beaming in the hospital bed.
He took her hand, feeling the rough palm that had come from years of scrubbing, polishing, cooking, washing, ironing, and generally making his life and Cynthia’s far simpler, not to mention indisputably brighter.
“Thank you for naming one of your fine boys after this old parson.”
“We won’t call ’im by th’ fancy name. It’ll jis’ be Timmy.”
“Timmy. I always liked it when Mother called me Timmy.”
“Timmy an’ Tommy,” she said, proudly.
“Timmy and Tommy and Sissy and Sassy.”
“You’ll be the boys’ granpaw, too,” she said, in case he hadn’t considered this.
“It’ll be an honor to be their granpaw.”
“Father?”
Since he’d officiated at her wedding several years ago, she had taken to calling him by his priestly title in a way that subtly claimed him as her true father. He never failed to note this. Blast, if he wasn’t about to bawl like baby. “Yes, my dear?”
“I sure do love you and Cynthy.”
There they came, rolling down his cheeks like a veritable gulley washer....
“And we sure do love you back,” he croaked.
“So, how’s the food at Hope House these days?”
He sat on the footstool by Louella’s rocking chair, feeling roughly eight or ten years old, as he always had in the presence of Miss Sadie and Louella.
“Oh, honey,