Page 25 - Spell of the Black Range

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SPELL OF THE BLACK RANGE
Mr. Hickey. Grandma, thinking no doubt of the scanty supply of leftovers, was annoyed. “What in the world has gotten into him that he can’t come on the day he is supposed to,” she muttered. It was soon apparent that Mr. Hickey was cross too. Finally he burst out, “Since when do you have to do your washing of a Sunday?” My grandmother was astonished and stoutly assured him this was Monday. A vigorous argument ensued; the almanac was taken from its hook behind the stove and consulted. Days and events were recalled and fitted together, and eventually Mr. Hickey convinced everyone that this really was Sunday, so Grandma put away her washing and bent her ingenuity to getting as good a meal as possible from the available supplies.
I wish I had been old enough to appreciate the conversations when Mr. Hickey visited — they seemed to satisfy a special need and hunger for my family. I know he was a most upright man, and I suspect a bit salty at times. Once my grandmother, discussing the shortcomings of a certain Irish woman of the Kingston area, unthinkingly said something disparaging about the Irish, then caught herself and blushed in embarrassment. Mr. Hickey
looked at her speculatively for a moment and said in his firm, positive manner, “Mrs. Barnes, there’s White Irish, and there’s shanty Irish, and there’s damned Irish.”
Mr. Hickey went to the Old Soldiers’ Home in Sawtelle a few years later when physical problems developed. The first Christmas he was there he sent me a shell box made by the veterans — a cigar box with a design formed by many varieties of shells covering the top and sides. It was one of my great treasures for many years.
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The only manuscript that we have been able to locate ends abruptly at this point.
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