Bill Vernon's flash about an old lady reflecting on things changing in the last hundred years.
You get my age, you got aches and pains all over. No wonder I mix up names, acallin' Kay Judy; Pat Jerry; Ruth Emmy, but she's dead, I know it, don't tell me, three or four years now. No wonder I fergit things like my teeth. One time I couldn't eat fer two whole days, lookin' fer 'em. Then there they was all the time sittin' perty as you please in a glass by the sink.
You young-uns should listen. That's the story of life, ain't it? People grow old and dry up like these here carnations, put in that vase by a nurse, then fergotten fer two weeks. Their smell's gone and their petals dropped. What a shame. They was pretty just fer a short time.
There's been some changes I tell you I don't cotton to, like in the mass. First, they said it in English, not Latin, then started this here hand-shakin' stuff. They brought in folk songs and guitars. My, my! The organ was plenty fer me. But I went along with it all, believin' the pope knew what's best.
This new-fangled thinkin' - don't it beat all! Now they want us clappin' every time somethin' good happens. Blowin' trumpets. Drummin'. Huggin'! Yellin'! Lordy, it's like we all was converted to Baptist.
Fer me, keep it simple. I like Father Jack visitin' here like he does, sayin' mass, havin' communion, hearin' confession. That's fine. I'm happy. I get out too, don't you know? Rose picks me up once a week, afixin' my hair, asettin' me down by what kiddies are home fer a supper.
And right here in this place, Bertha Lowry's next door, aknittin' scarves fer her grandsons. We talk pertnear every day. See what I'm gittin' at when I tell Father Jack I'm like an apostle? I done gave away all my possessions but what is in these here drawers - paper, pen, and sup hose, mainly. My mama's rosary's in there too. And her Bible. Not much else.
Most afternoons these days I sit outside on the front porch and rock, just passin' the time, watchin' cars whizz by on Straitsville Road. Sometimes, wheeled away to a window in back, I can look out a window and see smoke arisin' from the chimleys where Rose and Al live. That there is the very house and farm I left to marry John. My, my, them days are long gone. And you know what? Soon I will be too.
Now I hear we got some cake to eat. Somebody push me over to that table and let's do it.