We’ve been hillbillyin’ it up here tonight, with Pa
strummin’ and twangin’ his new Christmas banjo (no songs yet) and Ma knittin’
socks: a Jed Clampett* evening, log-cabin-like, right out of the Missouri
Ozarks. In-between his
thrum-thrumming, Pa’s been watchin’ Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday on TV
(technology and the Wild West always find their way).
I’m well settled into this mode – snap-snapping my
needles, throwing yarn with my pointer finger - when Pa all-of-a-sudden hangs
up the backwoods, tips the banjo against the wall, walks over to the piano and opens
his new Christmas music entitled “Whispering Piano.”
Refinement. Culture
shock.
“Irish Rain” throbs like Sandra’s skilled fingers (she’s my
therapeutic masseuse).
“A Silent Tear” bubbles like emotional champagne.
“Awaken the Dawn” sing-songs with lullabye strains.
I click my needles, but less vigorously without the jumpy wang-a-wanga
banjo accompaniment. At the end of the last row before starting the heel (which
requires mega-concentration), I put them down and call it a night.
________________
*Of the Beverly Hillbillies. My
favorite quote: “He’s a nice young feller, but if brains was lard, he wouldn’t
grease too big a pan.”
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