A Day in a Life: Part Three

 This is the third instalment of an essay I wrote years ago about a weird day in a crappy town. The first part is here and the second part is here (links open in new windows).

  A couple of hours later my husband came home from work, we ate supper, and then we left for the Celtic Society meeting.  We had contacted them once to get more information.  Not much of that was forthcoming, although they did call to remind us of every upcoming meeting.  We had decided that this was the month we would go, so off we went.  By this time I was getting quite stiff from my fall.  My leg was scraped up and both legs were quite bruised.  My right arm and shoulder were starting to hurt, too, if I tried to use them in a certain way.  I discovered this when I tried to close the truck door (my husband was not yet fully on board with my walking lifestyle idea, although he would later embrace it)--I could not do it unless I reached across and used my left hand.  Since the place we were going was right across the street from the place I had been earlier that day, about a mile and a half away, it took only a couple of minutes to get there, and since it was past business hours, there was plenty of parking.

We were a bit early and the person with the key to the building and meeting room had not yet arrived, so we waited outside by the door.  This elderly man arrived and started talking to us, wondering which part of the Celtic world we were interested in.  I told him Ireland and he wanted to know what part, specifically.  Knowing I had to say something quickly, I thought of the place where Bill’s grandmother was born—it was through her that he got his Irish citizenship—and I said Galway. He began to sing a song about the sun setting on Galway Bay.  The smile froze on my face and I was trying hard to figure out how to respond politely to this turn of events.  It had been a very long day with a few ups and downs (literally!), and I was getting more stiff and sore from my tumble onto the concrete.  Now I was smiling at this singing guy and trying to be polite.  I was ready to go home and curl up with a good book and a cup of tea, but it was not time for that yet.  Things had to get a lot more strange before I could leave.

  The song seemed interminable and he just went on—verse after verse.  He was not deterred.  Even when his dentures began to fall out of his head, he stood there singing while he tried to shove them back in (at this he eventually succeeded).  He was not distracted at all when an elderly woman strutted (and I use that word deliberately—she was strutting like a peacock) by in a short, plaid kilt, medium-heeled pumps, and knee high pantyhose.  She went by once, and then again while I stood there with a smile plastered on my face and wondering what the rest of the evening was going to be like. After an eternity, the song was finished, the dentures were back in the guy's head, and the strutting woman had stopped.  There was still no sign of the person with the key, so she had enough time to tell us in great detail how she had found the kilt at Goodwill.  No word on where the pumps or knee-highs came from.  

I will post the conclusion to the story tomorrow.

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