Um, well, it’s like this. I grew up in a small, country town. Like most small, country towns, its younger population had little choice but to go elsewhere in order to survive. I was one such. Throughout my life I’ve bumped into other folk with similar tales of dislocation from small, country towns. Occasionally they’re people from the same small, country town.
It’s quite startling when you discover that a name you’ve been reading in a rowing program really is the person of that name with whom you played hockey many, many years ago in that small, country town. (Much laughter ensued over that one.) It’s more startling still when you discover that one of Boy’s rowing friends, who’s in the same crew and who has been a guest in our home, is the son of another. Perhaps not another hockey player, but a schoolfellow from that small, country town. (Disbelieving laughter ensued over that one.)
Small, country town, did I say? I think I mean village, don’t I?
On matters woolly, the dark-blue beanie that I’m making for Eldest Nephew is coming along nicely, thanks to a lunch break spent sitting in a quietish corner of the city, lapping up sunshine and dodging breezes while casting on and knitting the first row in order to get it on its way. I knitted on the way home, too, and disposed of a few more rows while Middle Son was here awaiting Dr B’s return from doing taxi service for Boy and prior to their heading out to see Nonno. Yeah, our life is often like that. It’s just crazier than usual right now.
As far as I know, there’s nobody at the hospital from my small, country hometown but nothing would surprise me.