Go, Lassie, Go
TRACKS
- Go, Lassie, Go
- Captain McCurdy
- Racing the Storm
- Mist Forms on the Mountain
- A Fine, Soft Rain
- Night Bugs, Morning Bird
- Miss Baker’s Wedding March
- The Wreck of the Annabel Lee
- Coleraine
- The Little Red Sailboat
- Eleanor Plunkett
- Fanny Power
- The Rose in the Gorse
- Captain O’Kane
- Wayfaring Stranger
“And on your birthday, too,” said Jack.
“Yes, there is that.” She sighed and adjusted her oxygen canula. “I was born in 1926. Can you believe that? I can’t. That would make me… two hundred and ninety seven.”
Jack said, “Ah, but you don’t look a day over two hundred and nine.”
She chuckled.
“Did you bring me whiskey? The doctors say I shouldn’t drink any.”
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out an airline bottle of Jameson’s.
“The doctors don’t know everything,” he said.
Margaret pointed to the water glass on the bedside table. “Just empty it into the plant.”
Jack did, then opened the nip and poured it into the glass. The old woman held the glass to her lips, barely wetting them. She said, “Of all the cures that don’t work, whiskey is the best.”
She rested the glass on her chest. “I never touched a drop of this before the war. I was a telephone operator at a military hospital in England and one day, an American lieutenant hobbled up to me on crutches and said, ‘I think you’re beautiful. Will you marry me?’ And that’s how I got to Texas.”
She smiled at the memory, her brogue a wee bit more pronounced.
“A girl doesn’t get many offers like that. And it was wartime, you know. The Krauts could have killed us any minute.”
Once again, the glass touched her lips, but this time the whiskey didn’t.
“Are you gonna play me an Irish tune, Jack?”
Jack lifted his mandola out of its case and played softly. Margaret closed her eyes and drifted off. Jack took the glass and emptied it into the plant.
As he left the room, he noticed she was smiling in her sleep.
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TRACKS
Go, Lassie, Go
Captain McCurdy
Racing the Storm
Mist Forms on the Mountain
A Fine, Soft Rain
Night Bugs, Morning Bird
Miss Baker’s Wedding March
The Wreck of the Annabel Lee
Coleraine
The Little Red Sailboat
Eleanor Plunkett
Fanny Power
The Rose in the Gorse
Captain O’Kane
Wayfaring Stranger
“You’re lucky, Jack,” Margaret O’Mara said. “I don’t entertain just any man in my bedroom.”
“And on your birthday, too,” said Jack.
“Yes, there is that.” She sighed and adjusted her oxygen canula. “I was born in 1926. Can you believe that? I can’t. That would make me… two hundred and ninety seven.”
Jack said, “Ah, but you don’t look a day over two hundred and nine.”
She chuckled.
“Did you bring me whiskey? The doctors say I shouldn’t drink any.”
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out an airline bottle of Jameson’s.
“The doctors don’t know everything,” he said.
Margaret pointed to the water glass on the bedside table. “Just empty it into the plant.”
Jack did, then opened the nip and poured it into the glass. The old woman held the glass to her lips, barely wetting them. She said, “Of all the cures that don’t work, whiskey is the best.”
She rested the glass on her chest. “I never touched a drop of this before the war. I was a telephone operator at a military hospital in England and one day, an American lieutenant hobbled up to me on crutches and said, ‘I think you’re beautiful. Will you marry me?’ And that’s how I got to Texas.”
She smiled at the memory, her brogue a wee bit more pronounced.
“A girl doesn’t get many offers like that. And it was wartime, you know. The Krauts could have killed us any minute.”
Once again, the glass touched her lips, but this time the whiskey didn’t.
“Are you gonna play me an Irish tune, Jack?”
Jack lifted his mandola out of its case and played softly. Margaret closed her eyes and drifted off. Jack took the glass and emptied it into the plant.
As he left the room, he noticed she was smiling in her sleep.