with his feet braced against Pop's and hold out both hands. The old man would grab them and Mac would swing him up; they'd sway together like they were wrestling, poor old Pop growling with pain. There was never any need to worry about my learning bad words at school, I picked them all up listening to the old man in his rheumatism spells. Then Mac would ease him down into the chair again and Pop would take another shot of hootch which was probably the worst thing for him, and go on hunting for some cricket news in the Ledger. Maybe it's a good thing he died when he did, he'd be pretty sore at the old town now. There's no steam engines at Broad Street Station, and no morning Ledger, and I guess they've almost forgotten how to play cricket.
But I'm lying on the gray shawl, which the old man liked to see around, grandfather wore it for an overcoat when he came from Derry in a sailing ship because the Irish couldn't get enough potatoes. Maybe Pop feels better sitting in the sun, or he's easy in his mind with a naggin of whiskey and Mother at church. "It's wonderful," he said, "how people love each other when they're separated a bit." One of their wedding anniversaries fell on a Sunday and while Mother was at church Pop remembered it and had Mac put up the flag over the porch. When Mother came back along Griscom Street and saw it she was sore, because flags are only put up for wars and battles.
Under the arbor, specially if he could smell dinner getting ready, he'd sing some of those old Scotch-Irish songs. I never knew what they were all about, but when I had oatmeal he'd hum:
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