Tucked Granny in at the rehab residence then went on off to a hoop-de-doo in honor of a young fella gittin' hitched.
This boy is in his 30s and grew up in our parts--why I reckon he had many a plate of cookies and milk at Aunty's on his way to manhood. One day he stood in mah kitchen an' promised he wouldn't marry no missy that he din't bring by fer Aunty's once-over. An' y'all, he did.
Anyhoo, the evenin' was so lovely even the croaky frog sang sweet. The young fella's Mama and Daddy live now on a lake in the city that look like legions of gnomes wif' maniucure scissors snip through the night jes' so when the sun come up the lawn and borders is worthy of Monet.
This young fella is late outa the gate when it comes to nuptials, so thar's high happiness in the air round his mama and daddy's place. This were that natural conviviality--ya know-- wif' a relaxed posture ya always see when several generations of folks who done known each other since knee britches get together. The purty young women were the ones boys brought home to Mama finally, and the young men wuz the ones a girl thought would make her Daddy proud. The settlement. Them flower filled rooms lookin' over a sunset painted terrace were filled wif' marriages an' engagements. Not one "relationship" in the bunch. This was a gathering of the committed-for-the-long-haul.
Mebbe thas' why I noticed what the subtext were: Them handsome, healthy maned young lions warn't struttin', but leanin' on the ole' baldin' lions.
Young Cats wif' shiny MBAs an' Tripple A resumes built up in Chicago, Boston and Zurich... but fear had 'em by the throat. They ain't never seen no economy like this, an' never thought the ugly word "unemployment" would smudge up their future.
"I'se a TARP II refugee" laughed one, while another, a gun-slinger assest manager, describe his current job as "personal asset reassessment."
Among the guests were a beloved former high school football coach--a man who coached these kids in much more than a spread offense. I seen him put his meaty paw on the back of one young neck and give a shake, "thar's a time when when ya' make jes' six inches through the mud, son. A good quarterback knows when to throw long an' when to tuck the ball an put his haid down. This ain't yore last game."
Another counseled, " Now, looky,Beau, thangs do come round again--why me an the Mrs. wuz like you an' your bride, onc't. We thought Laissez les bon temps roulez"wuz our theme song. Then we got our chops busted in the Carter years when recession meant 19 % interest rates. My britches wuz draggin' the gound jes' like yor'n is now. Know what? we hung tight--to each other. We learnt how to live on 70% of what we made even in the fat years. An we's stuck wif' that plan. Next time this bust cycle rears up like Jaws, youse gonna be long gone up in the dunes. Only the suckers will still be out to catch a wave."
In a corner by the coffee urn, lookin' over the rim of his Drambuie spiked cup, a retired merger specialist squeezed a flat-belly's bicep, "How else ya gonna know what's inside of ya' iffin' ya ain't ever had a bloodied nose? These grey hairs ain't free ya' know. "
Aunty saw grizzled ole geezers pat young backs-- seasoned men, worriet about they own life's work--encourage the young pups, not wif' happy talk, but wif hope based on hard work an' frugal habits, the courage to base their future on themselves an' they own clans and community.
"Git local," advised one grey haid. "Make yore place among yore own an' be thar' fer 'em. In the end, none of us lives globally, we live heah. Ya always need to take care of home base."
Ya know, thar is somethin' very allurin' about a man who knows the score.