On Dating after Sixty

April 27, 2016

“Why you’re as pretty as a speckled pup.”

Farmergary tells me I’m as pretty as a speckled pup. I think he means it as a compliment.

He’s from Elijay and grows 9,000 cabbages, fields of beans, and hay.

Then there is Martin. A Messianic Jew and cross-dresser, I discover.

Before that, Scott, who puts chicken feed–high grade he insists–in his cornbread. He claims the family loves his cornbread and knows nothing of the secret ingredient.

After him, an Orthodox Jew. We lust over France and wine. I’m not sure why he’d take out a blonde Scots-Irishwoman. I’m about as Gentiley as one can get.

In between, there is Steve, a country boy from Douglasville who can flat out play lead guitar and traveled with Merle Haggard years ago. He lost his son and still recovers. He calls me ‘sexy’.

I meet the Canadian from Nova Scotia for a beer in Dunwoody. He’s a PhD engineer who’s been in Chile. He’s almost anti-social and talks in monosyllables.

Then there’s the intellectual historian who can discuss Kirgegard and knows more about Luther than I do.

Before all of them, there was Cowboy–my healer from the divorce. A real Biker, he was educated at Presbyterian College, grew up in posh Buckhead, the son of a Coca-Cola lawyer.

He bought me cowgirl boots and leathers. We had a ton of fun! But I couldn’t take him home to meet my mother.

Now, a Methodist minister comes ’round. I don’t know..but he sure knows how to kiss.

I am back on line and can’t tell you how it’s going.

Stay tuned.