I was interrupted by foolishness but soon shooed him away reflexively.
Foolishness is a corrosive fellow, asinine and whining, so I dismissed him post haste, and I thought of Gladys, my grandmother on my Dad’s side of the aisle. She was a practical and sturdy Welsh woman who did not indulge in silliness. With a wave of her hand, she swatted away all the nonsense that dared to flit and skate about her nose.
Damn fools, she’d add, for emphasis, shaking her head. She’d adjust her apron, always tidy and tightly tied, and that was that.
Gladys was a woman who said little but made a heavy impact, and we loved her for it. The reverence ran deep. Her reputation was fostered by ably raising six kids during the Great Depression, a husband buried, and making do. Always making do.
There was no time for bullshit when mouths needed to be fed.
Poor did not mean helpless.
Everyone pitched in.
Gladys.
I hope her name comes back into style.
There are too many damn fools out here.