Crazy Crap Item #54: The part where I hear echoes of Fitzgerald

Speaking of corned beef, I was the grateful recipient of said meatstuff from my neighbors, the Caseys. Apparently, they had obtained a rather large specimen of the aforementioned cured meat, and were planning to cook it on Friday, March 17. But a dilemma arose: Young Jack and James Casey, ages 4 1/2 and 1 1/2 respectively, needed haircuts! And the beast was already in the oven! Where to turn for meat-sitting services??

Thankfully, the Caseys dwell beside a shiftless, excuse-for-doing-nothing-seeker who poses as a freelance writer. A cup of tea and a good book were all I needed to fill the role of meat-sitter while Ann (Mama Casey) took the wee heads in for shearing. As a reward, I was bestowed with a delicious helping of corned beef, all for myself.

Fastforward to today. As I am a a shiftless, excuse-for-doing-nothing-seeker, and because I spent the morning getting a tooth crowned (ugh), I decided that I needed to make some crepes. Reasons: (a.) They are delicious. (b.) I happen to be very good at making crepes. (c.) They are soothing, and after 1 1/2 hours in the dentist's chair, I decided I deserved some soothing. As my little mountain of crepes grew, I thought, "Aha! I can use these crepes as a 'thank you' for the corned beef, and as a way to return the Caseys' tupperware." The tupperware being the vessel which had previously contained said c.b.

So one pile of crepes later, I'm at the Caseys' door, tupperware in hand. Ann answers, joined by Jack, resplendent in his Superman shirt. And bouncing. Not manic, jittery boucing. True, deep bounds, summoned up from the energy of the earth below, executed with a deliberation and concentration usually seen in world-class chess masters.

I commented on the bouncing, but he was in no mood for talking.

Given Jack's generally acknowledged affection for me, my diggable backyard and my penchant for playing along with his identity du jour (superhero, builderman, fireman, pirate, etc.), it was hard not to interpret his bouncing as an attempt at wooing my favor. And it's then I heard F. Scott Fitzgerald whispering in my ear:

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry, 'Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!'