Lloyd and the Midnight Callers

They knocked on my door close to midnight. They wore dark suits and carried ominous-looking bags. But his was no holdup; it was a help-up. One sturdy gloved hand got me up off the couch where I had flopped when I fell.

I was watching the NBA playoff game, sitting on Old Red my walker, and the transition from sit to walk went badly. Fortunately, the couch was behind me. I sweat a half hour trying to find leverage to get up, but the sofa was too low. Blessedly, I was wearing my in-apartment fall call button. A lady in Cleveland inquired about my well-being. I told her I was just sitting around and couldn’t get up. She summoned the Fire Department. Flashing red lights at midnight stirs curiosity among the hoi polloi, so at mail time I had to confess my guilt.

The Good Book says pride goeth before destruction and a hasty spirit before a fall. I got hasty. That other good verse kicked in: in all things God is working good. The night’s adventure goes hand in hand with my recent decision to quit chasing every interest that comes down the pike, particularly in my reading. I have stashed philosophy, theology, and ancient history books my first love: poetry and a good story. If that troubles you young guys, remember this: I haven’t been young for quite a while. I am reading Mary Oliver’s Devotions—a big book—page by page—and friend Gary Magnuson’s poems, pungent and rich.

Should you come upon me drifting back to my old stodgy ways, please whack me upside the head.

Old Grandpa Lloyd