Laying a friendly old work-calloused hand on my head, he changed the conversation altogether, saying, “Son, you need a haircut.”
I told him I didn’t mind. I didn’t like my hair short; flies and mosquitoes bothered me.
He glanced down at my bare feet and asked, “How come your feet are cut and scratched like that?”
I told him it was pretty tough picking blackberries barefoot.
He nodded his head. It was too much for my grandfather. He turned and walked away.
I saw the glasses come off, and the old red handkerchief come out.
I heard the good excuse of blowing his nose. He stood for several seconds with his back toward me.
When he turned around, I noticed his eyes were moist.
In a quavering voice, he said, “Well, Son, it’s your money. You worked for it, and you worked hard.
You got it honestly, and you want some dogs. We’re going to get those dogs. Be damned! Be damned!”
That was as near as I ever came to hearing my grandfather curse, if you can call it cursing.
He walked over and picked up the ad again, asking, “Is this two years old, too?”
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