and snow, it makes the warm spring weather even more gratifying. There is much pleasant banter as the bingo cards are played. Cyril and I play three cards before, as prearranged, both of us rise separately and move off to the back hallway as if to go to the restroom. No one notices our departure and the nurses are busy at the desk.
We are down the hall and out the exit door into the fresh twilight like violets “that strew the green lap of the new come spring,” both of us greatly excited, hobbling skillfully with our canes across the parking lot toward the highway that crosses between the home and Burkhum’s Tap. Cyril is cackling triumphantly. I wish I could hold his hand, but we are both occupied with our canes. We stay close to each other as we move along, happy as a couple of teenagers frolicking in the foothills of a lifetime. It has been many years since I’ve felt this sort of keenness.
We are accomplished old shufflers—so tap, tap, tap—and we are across the road and quickly at the edge of Burkhum’s gravel parking lot. There are early crickets in the bushes around the building; we can hear a car door slamming and people laughing. The moon is not quite full, but it is gibbous and high, and there is the sound of a fiddle, a loud guitar, and double bass coming out of the tavern.
C HAPTER 11
Cyril
T he last time I was in Burkhum’s on a Friday night I got myself into some serious heat, but I can tell already that this evening is going to be better. This is an occasion ! My first date ever! I’ve waited a long time, but now I’m out here doing the town with a real knockout. Louise!
The Tap is jumping, but I spot a table for two off in a corner. Louise seems a bit overcome by the crowd and loud music. I tuck one of my canes up under my arm, take her elbow and proudly steer her through. We are the oldest people in Burkham’s by at least twenty years. Folks are checking us out and moving their chairs back so we can hobble through like royalty.
Burkhum hires extra waitresses to work on weekend nights—but the man himself personally comes to our table to take our order. I suspect he might be feeling just a tad guilty about what happened to me—as he was the guy who put me out into the storm that Friday night when I got iced, and I haven’t seen him since.
“Cyril!” Burkhum says. “I’m glad to see you out and around. You doing okay?”
“Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that, Burkham, but I’m making it. Thanks for asking. How’s business?”
“We’re getting by,” he says. “Who’s your lady friend?” He’s looking at Louise and smiles.
“This is Louise,” I proudly tell Burkhum. Then to Louise, “Burkhum is the guy who owns this pile.”
Louise has put on small earrings and some makeup. She gives him her nicest smile. The way she’s fixed her hair—she’s like a beautiful white bird. Lord, she is a sight to my eyes! Louise glows . I know Burkhum has seen some women in his day, but I can tell he’s impressed.
I am mighty proud to be with her. Cyril , I keep reminding myself, here you are on your first date ever. And you are out with a queen.
“You from around here?” Burkhum asks Louise. He’s looking her up and down.
There may be only 693 people in Soldiers Grove, but folks can live a lifetime as neighbors in these driftless hills and never meet. Louise tells him, “My husband and I had a farm two miles in off Highway J. He died a few years ago. I live in the care home now.”
“What’ll it be?” Burkhum asks.
I proudly order for both of us. “Bring us two Leinenkugels, Burkhum, and a bag of barbecue chips.”
“This one’s on me,” he announces.
I make as if I’m falling out of my chair. “Burkhum, from whence comes this benevolence? Have you been canonized? I thought you were looking a little like Saint Vincent de Paul tonight. Do you know about him? He was patron saint of generosity. There’s a statue of him in Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome.
We are down the hall and out the exit door into the fresh twilight like violets “that strew the green lap of the new come spring,” both of us greatly excited, hobbling skillfully with our canes across the parking lot toward the highway that crosses between the home and Burkhum’s Tap. Cyril is cackling triumphantly. I wish I could hold his hand, but we are both occupied with our canes. We stay close to each other as we move along, happy as a couple of teenagers frolicking in the foothills of a lifetime. It has been many years since I’ve felt this sort of keenness.
We are accomplished old shufflers—so tap, tap, tap—and we are across the road and quickly at the edge of Burkhum’s gravel parking lot. There are early crickets in the bushes around the building; we can hear a car door slamming and people laughing. The moon is not quite full, but it is gibbous and high, and there is the sound of a fiddle, a loud guitar, and double bass coming out of the tavern.
C HAPTER 11
Cyril
T he last time I was in Burkhum’s on a Friday night I got myself into some serious heat, but I can tell already that this evening is going to be better. This is an occasion ! My first date ever! I’ve waited a long time, but now I’m out here doing the town with a real knockout. Louise!
The Tap is jumping, but I spot a table for two off in a corner. Louise seems a bit overcome by the crowd and loud music. I tuck one of my canes up under my arm, take her elbow and proudly steer her through. We are the oldest people in Burkham’s by at least twenty years. Folks are checking us out and moving their chairs back so we can hobble through like royalty.
Burkhum hires extra waitresses to work on weekend nights—but the man himself personally comes to our table to take our order. I suspect he might be feeling just a tad guilty about what happened to me—as he was the guy who put me out into the storm that Friday night when I got iced, and I haven’t seen him since.
“Cyril!” Burkhum says. “I’m glad to see you out and around. You doing okay?”
“Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that, Burkham, but I’m making it. Thanks for asking. How’s business?”
“We’re getting by,” he says. “Who’s your lady friend?” He’s looking at Louise and smiles.
“This is Louise,” I proudly tell Burkhum. Then to Louise, “Burkhum is the guy who owns this pile.”
Louise has put on small earrings and some makeup. She gives him her nicest smile. The way she’s fixed her hair—she’s like a beautiful white bird. Lord, she is a sight to my eyes! Louise glows . I know Burkhum has seen some women in his day, but I can tell he’s impressed.
I am mighty proud to be with her. Cyril , I keep reminding myself, here you are on your first date ever. And you are out with a queen.
“You from around here?” Burkhum asks Louise. He’s looking her up and down.
There may be only 693 people in Soldiers Grove, but folks can live a lifetime as neighbors in these driftless hills and never meet. Louise tells him, “My husband and I had a farm two miles in off Highway J. He died a few years ago. I live in the care home now.”
“What’ll it be?” Burkhum asks.
I proudly order for both of us. “Bring us two Leinenkugels, Burkhum, and a bag of barbecue chips.”
“This one’s on me,” he announces.
I make as if I’m falling out of my chair. “Burkhum, from whence comes this benevolence? Have you been canonized? I thought you were looking a little like Saint Vincent de Paul tonight. Do you know about him? He was patron saint of generosity. There’s a statue of him in Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome.
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