Hi readers. Thanks for coming by for a read.
Down at physical therapy we’re folks who’ve seen 17-year cicadas emerge the way they did in 2013 enough times so’s we shrug it off. Old hat. Centuries change and we say to one another, “Back in ninteen hunnerd and eight-one I was fishing out in Colorado or somewhere and caught one hell of a brown trout. Or maybe it was the Black Hills. Rainbow trout.”
Seventeen year cicadas just ain’t going to impress people such as us. Because we all remember all the words to, “I’ve got a feeling called the blues since my baby said goodbye. Lard I don’t know what I’ll dooooo, all I do is sit and cryyyyy oh lard that last long day she said goodbye, etc.”
There’s an instrumental version on the boom box and a pair of octogenarian who quit whatever machine they’re on and stand together and sing it everytime it plays. Not too bad duo, either. And all the rest of us mouth the words while they sing it through.
She’s evidently one of the people who’s got the kind of insurance pays for her to go down there forever as a cost saver. His ain’t so good. I overheard them saying his will be running out in a few weeks, a little before mine.
So I’m thinking I might get a chance to get up and sing some old Inkspots or Otis Redding, once he clears out of here. Maybe Hair, too. Everybody’s Talking At Me I Don’t Hear A Word They’re Saying Only the Shadows of Their Eyes.
Maybe run through a little standup comedy. Some tap dancing.
Fact is, though, if it weren’t for the fact my energy level and limitations are being demonstrated to me while I listen, I otherwise feel more prone to do some jitterbugging and Texas Two Step and trying to remember the words to songs and sing them except as background noise to 17 year cicadas.
Got to see a Century change, we did, got to see Haley’s Comet once. Four times around for those 17 year cicadas. And we got a feeling called the blooooose.
Ought to be ashamed of ourselves.