***
I did a strange thing this morning. They were playing a waltz on the radio, and I decided I wanted to dance to it. I don’t mean that in the usual sense. I have a general notion of waltzing but no instruction in the steps, and so on. It was mostly a matter of waving my arms a little and spinning around a little, pretty carefully. Remembering my youth makes me aware that I never really had enough of it, it was over before I was done with it. Whenever I think of Edward, I think of playing catch in a hot street and that wonderful weariness of the arms. I think of leaping after a high throw and that wonderful collaboration of the whole body with itself and that wonderful certainty and amazement when you know the glove is just where it should be. Oh, I will miss the world!
So I decided a little waltzing would be very good, and it was. I plan to do all my waltzing here in the study. I have thought I might have a book ready at hand to clutch if I began to experience unusual pain, so that it would have an especial recommendation from being found in my hands. That seemed theatrical, on consideration, and it might have the perverse effect of burdening the book with unpleasant associations. The ones I considered, by the way, were Donne and Herbert and Barth’s Epistle to the Romans and Volume II of Calvin’s Institutes. Which is by no means to slight Volume I.
There’s a mystery in the thought of the re-creation of an old man as an old man, with all the defects and injuries of what is called long life faithfully preserved in him, and all their claims and all their tendencies honored, too, as in the steady progress of arthritis in my left knee. I have thought sometimes that the Lord must hold the whole of our lives in memory, so to speak:. Of course He does. And “memory” is the wrong word, no doubt. But the finger I broke sliding into second base when I was twenty-two years old is crookeder than ever, and I can interpret that fact as an intimate attention, taking Herbert’s view.
This morning I strolled over to Boughton’s. He was sitting in the screened porch behind the trumpet vines, dozing. He and his wife were fond of those vines because they attract hummingbirds. They’ve pretty well taken over now, so the house looks sort of like a huge duck blind. Boughton corrected me when I told him that. “A hummingbird blind,” he said. “There are times when a little bird shot would bring down a thousand of them.” But, he says, since that’s not enough yet to season a cup of broth, he’s going to bide his time.
All his gardens have more or less gone to brush, but as I came up the road I saw young Boughton and the daughter Glory clearing out the iris beds. Boughton owns his house. I used to think that was an enviable thing, but there’s been no one but him to see to it, and things have gotten a little out of hand these last years.
He seemed in excellent spirits. “The children,” he said, “are putting things to rights for me.”
I talked to him some about the baseball season and about the election, but I could tell he was listening mainly to the voices of his children, who did sound very happy and harmonious. I remember when they played in those gardens with their cats and kites and bubbles. It was as pretty a sight as you’re likely to see. Their mother was a fine woman, and such a one to laugh! Boughton says, “I miss her something dreadful.” She knew Louisa when they were girls. Once, I remember, they put hard-boiled eggs under a neighbor’s setting hen.
What the point was I never knew, but I remember them laughing so hard they just threw themselves down on the grass and lay there with the tears runnings down into their hair. One time Boughton and I and some others took a hay wagon apart and reassembled it on the roof of the courthouse. I don’t know what the point of that was, either, but we had a grand time, working under cover of darkness and all that. I wasn’t ordained yet, but I was in seminary. I don’t know what we thought we were up to. All that laughter. I wish I could hear it again. I asked Boughton if he remembered putting that wagon on the roof and he said, “How could I forget it?” and chuckled to please me, but he really wanted to sit there with his chin propped on the head of his cane and listen to the voices of his children. So I walked home.
You and your mother were making sandwiches with peanut butter and apple butter on raisin bread. I consider such a sandwich a great delicacy, as you are clearly aware, because you made me stay on the porch until everything was ready, the milk poured and so on. Children seem to think every pleasant thing has to be a surprise.
Your mother was a little upset because she didn’t know where I was. I didn’t tell her I might go to Boughton’s. She’s afraid I’ll just drop dead somewhere, and that’s reasonable enough. It seems to me worse things could happen, actually, but that’s not how she looks at it. Most of the time I feel a good deal better than the doctor led me to expect, so I ‘m inclined to enjoy myself as I can. It helps me sleep.
