There are plenty of Shyannes in foxholes
These days, I believe I match the description of the bad father in the old Johnny Cash song, "A Boy Named Sue."
I'm 62, and I'm, "big, and bent, and gray, and old," as the old man is described in the song.
I'm still Hell in a fight, though.
Laughably described as an "essential employee" by some government somewhere, I do three hours of talk radio a day, which, in radio hours, is equivalent to a day at work.
I stumbled away from the microphone last Thursday, out into the tree-shaded squirrel-scampered radio station parking lot, sucking at the fresh air like a coal miner coming up out of the ground. There is no white-collar workingman who doesn't like to make blue-collar analogies about himself, so I couldn't resist the coal miner comparison. Frankly, half-a-shift in a coal mine would kill me, and might have killed me when I was 35.
I got in my car and went to buy flour. My wife, a newspaper reporter working from home, is on a baking binge. She was planning on making scones. I like scones as much as any hard-workin', gun-totin' cowboy ever did.
In the store, I went masked, like Zorro. I scored one of the store's last two bags of flour. I left the other one for someone less fortunate. Does not Zorro live to help the poor peasants who cannot find flour for their next meal? Si! He does!
It was a heavy bag of flour, maybe a pound, but I one-handed it, in case anyone was watching.
And there she was behind the register. The checkout person. Small and brown-haired. Two gold hoop earrings, one in each ear. She stood behind the clear plastic like a frontier woman staring down a lobo wolf.
I bet her name was Tyais, Meaghan, or maybe Megann. In fact, she could have been named "Alyssa."