At the end of the day, the fence stood nearly finished by Johnny Turnbull. It was a lot more work than Gassett realized, and dusting the statues of the Blessed Mother on the altar, mopping the vestibule, ironing Father’s gowns and all of Gassett’s usual tidying work. Gassett attempted the arduous task of lowering himself into his comfy chair. His enlarged knees reminded him daily of their unusual take on God’s handiwork. Once seated, Gassett remembered Johnny’s words while pounding on the fence earlier that day. “My grandfather doesn’t walk because his cane is broken. He’s old and talks funny like Father Drury, and he’s old and funny looking like you.” Gassett smiled, entertained, by Johnny’s innocence.

Then, Gassett attempted the, also, arduous task of reading a book. His round stubby fingers held the tip of the page, sometimes for minutes, until the turn came. Gassett had grown old now, but he attacked each word, as a mule would do math, matching sounds and shape until the proper utterance notified him of the word sought. At the end of the hard-earned read, Gassett blew out the candle and prayed for his end.

Nighttime was dreamtime and the best time for Gassett to engage in topsy-turvy. During this dreamtime, this special time, Gassett played baseball and hit the ball hard and high. He ran the bases, and dogged each baseman in his dusty path. Gassett slid into home plate and shared his jubilance with his team. Nowhere did he slow down, or take a short cut. It was all earned, the ball to high to catch, to far to throw in safely, no match for his prowess. Gassett laughed as loud as the ball went high, and celebrated when he watched the field go back to scheme after such an interruption between them. Nowhere did his fingers matter, his physique claim handicap, Gassett smiled when he sat down and shouted encouragement to the next batter up.

In his dreamy mind, opportunity was always there, the angels and saints of others assistance gone, the endeavor of touching the baseball cap’s bill before a swing was always his. In his mind he swung at everything, lived amongst everyone, touched others skin, laughed at the white cliffs he climbed and handed flowers to the girls who slept with their hair in curlers to look pretty for the next day. For your effort, he would say.

Up from his bed in the basement apartment he occupied, Gassett fed his cat, Georgia Brown. Today he chose suspenders anticipating his work with Johnny Turnbull. The room was warm from the fireplace; he arrived late this morning, after the stone stairs leading from his candle lit, windowless home took more time to scale than usual. The landing between the fifteen stairs loomed and blew cold air into his earnest face.

“Good Morning Father.”
“Morning Gassett, my man, what’s to keep us from a large tumble today?”
“Building blocks of faith?”
“Very good Gassett. I will use that as part of my homily for Sunday. I was choosing ‘we who tumble’ as the word of the day, you’ve greatly enhanced the house my thoughts live in.”
Gassett and Father Drury walked down the long hall of the stone church, leading to the kitchen.
“The goats in the back look a little ornery. God only knows how far they had to go out to feed yesterday.” Gassett mentioned.
“Yes, like us to the kitchen.”
“Like looking in a mirror,” Gassett said unlocking the kitchen door.

Gassett and Father Drury stood outside on the playground anticipating Johnny Turnbull and his rumpus behaviors. Together they waited, standing two abreast, staring at the open field beyond the black top and yonder to the mountains that lined the town. It was a beautiful day, and they stood in a sound way, both swooning at the majesty of air smoothly soaked in water, dirt sometimes given to blow dust and a sky always changing in front of Gassett’s dark-circled eyes.