My new poetry publisher asked to meet for coffee, a while ago. We did, and he said I’ll tell you a story about me and then you’ll tell me.
His father was his favorite relative. He was a social guy, surrounded by people all his life. And even though he lived in a small town on the West Coast, Way Up There, the publisher said, he was a dandy (his word) with beautiful suits, and shoes to match. Whenever he could, he’d play poker. At 70, he had to have his right leg amputated from the knee down. That did not stop his poker playing, or his suits. He got a wooden leg, and made friends with the leg maker. At 75 he needed his left leg amputated from the knee down. He got another wooden leg, and made an extra set just in case. And kept on playing poker. When he died the publisher (we can call him William) took all four legs and made a poker table.
Then it was my turn.
Next time I’ll tell you a story is all I could say, after the very pedestrian Oh My God. I said that a few times.