Yesterday, waiting in line at the Galen Street post office, Marash Girl offered to let the fellow behind go ahead of her, as he had only one item -- an envelope with a stamp on it which he wanted hand cancelled before mailing. He declined, saying, I'm in no rush -- I have my whole life to wait.
Marash Girl asked him how old he was and he responded, Much older than everyone here -- I'm 79, almost 80 years old!
Really, folks, Marash Girl is not exaggerating when she tells you that the fellow looked no more than 60 years old at the most, with a peaches and cream complexion.
Marash Girl teased, I'll bet you smoked and drank your whole life.
Oh, no, he answered. Never touched a drink; never had a smoke.
How was that, Marash Girl asked.
The gentleman answered. I lived on a horse farm in Canada. No one could smoke and no one did, for fear that the whole place would go up in flames. My uncles made their own beer and bottled it, and since they had a capping machine, they made me root beer. That's the only 'brew' I ever drank. We raised and put by all of our food. Our basement shelves were lined with bottles of peaches and pears, tomatoes and applesauce, jams and jellies put by in the fall to eat throughout the winter -- the only thing I ever remember my grandmother buying was a can of green beans in the middle of the winter. We even cooked chicken and put it up in bottles so that we could have chicken sandwiches at the ready all winter long.
Have you written your memoirs? Marash Girl asked.
Oh, no. Who would want to hear about all that? he replied.
"We would," chorused all of us in the post office, but the gentleman had already turned his back on us and was walking out the door.