to do a thing and then sit on my thumbs when the hour arrives,” he said.
He set the shoe down on a sheet of old farm newspaper spread across the concrete floor.
He reached for his cane and gripped the worn curve of the hickory handle with his thick, calloused fingers.
He pressed his weight down onto the wood before he made any attempt to shift his legs.
When he brought his weight onto his right side, the worn rubber tip of the cane made a sharp squeak against the smooth concrete.
He winced once, his lower jaw tightening, but he straightened his back until he stood at his full height.
“How is that hip replacement holding up today?” I asked.
“It feels like a piece of dry machinery that needs an oil can,” he said.
He took two short steps along the alley, testing his footing on the
