‘Grandpa’ Curran had
lived in our little community for over ten years. The first time I encountered
him was at the age of four and a half. I was playing a game of Cowboys and
Indians and had taken up a good sniping position in his little front garden
behind a sappy bright green leylandii shrub. Suddenly the rattle of a metal
gate caused me to look up. There was ‘Grandpa’ Curran
towering above me, eyes quizzically examining the earth smeared face of a boy
no more than three feet tall.
I don’t know exactly what thoughts of panic went through my head
at that moment but I am sure they ranged from fear of his great height - to his
possible anger -
right through to an overwhelming feeling that he would definitely
give away my position to the Indians.
Much to my surprise however, he folded his long body in a manner
which must have taken great gymnastic ability until he was looking me straight
in the eye. Eyeing my roughly cut wooden rifle pointing through a gap in his
shrubbery he summed up the situation instantly.
“Howdy partner,” he whispered just like in the films. “Injuns on
the warpath again?”
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