A chiropractor posted an old poem to the Silver Fox List the other day that I've had in my mind for years, but just in fragments, like remembering a phrase or two from an old song. Things like that can drive you crazy. Last summer I was settin' on the porch at an ol' time buddy's log cabin right smack on the Ohio River, Northern Kentucky side, of course. Seen me a barge comin' round the bend from up Cincinnati way and danged if that ungraceful, cumbersome thing didn't start up a right pretty song in my addled gray head. Took me back to my aunt's house over at Ashland southeast down the river toward West Virginia, who used to play the piano till the sweet thing lost her mind from the menopause, they said. Well, sir, I could just hear her playin' and me singin' along, "Beautiful Ohio in dreams again I see," and do you think I could remember another line for the rest of the day?   

I got up out of the rocker and paced around mumbling worse than my poor sick aunt ever did. Even kicked a cat, which is somethin' I would never do in a normal state of mind. Of course, it was a neighbor's cat who had no dang business hangin' around my buddy's porch. Well, I reckon "kick" ain't quite the right word. Let's say I kinda tucked the toe of my ankle boot under her tummy with a certain vigor and lifted her out of the way, and she got all huffy and went and jumped down to the yard into the rose bushes, and you could tell by the yowl that she got snagged by the thorns. Anybody watchin', which they weren't, woulda thunk I surely did give that critter a kick.   

Now, don't that show how downright distracted a person can get when things just don't set right in the head? We do things we don't mean to do, and sometimes we hurt others. That cat had the right of way 'cause I'm a mighty big guy, and it was my responsibility to see the little thing didn't get hurt. It woke me up, 'though, and I set down in the swing at the other end of the porch and dozed off not caring anymore about some song that didn't matter anyway. That cat never came near me again that afternoon. Reckon she figured I would be another thorn in her side.   

About that poem found by the doctor on the Silver Fox List, I saw it and near jumped out of my skin like the cat. Like the song half-remembered on the cabin porch, it conjured up a faint echo of the past. I recollect my grandmother reciting it to me. "Now, Brocky," she said after she was done, "that's you, darlin'. You're the Sunday boy, and whoever wrote that poem must have had you in mind."   

How right you were, Grandma, but how little did you know! Yes, I am Sabbath's child.   

"Monday's child is fair of face.  
Tuesday's child is full of grace.  
Wednesday's child is full of woe.  
Thursday's child has far to go.  
Friday's child is loving and giving.  
Saturday's child works hard for his living.  
And the child born on the Sabbath day  
is bonny and blithe, and good and gay."