This fine Saint Paul Tuesday morning the old replica “Pruett’s Pig Powders” thermometer tells us it is +26ºF, with a light wind, making it feel like a brisk +20ºF, as we linger on the back porch a moment or two, enjoying our (January Edition) porcelain, not China (but made in China) Codger Collectible™ Mugs (have I mentioned the spiffy March Edition is still available?) full of hot organically & shade-grown, Fair Trade, French Roast coffee warms us and to jump-starts our remaining brain synapses into synapting, before making our way to the Cyber Café, and our waiting crew of Codgers.

As we approached our usual table, the one in front, by the plate-glass window, where we can (and do) observe and comment on passers by, Molly called out: “Morning coots, I’ll be right there with your coffee.”

“Morning gents,” Medford greeted as we sat down in our usual places.

A chorus of greetings, acknowledging that it was morning, but without commenting on the relative goodness of it followed.

“You two enjoy your day off?” asked Harold, looking out the plate-glass window.

“Indeed,” Medford rejoined, “speaking for myself, not seeing your lined faces made the day very enjoyable. Laura’s honey-do list was pretty long ‘though.”

“As it remains, I’m sure,” I added helpfully.

“It’s nice to hear the birds” Fred offered, “singing their spring songs.”

“And I’ve seen a blade or two of green grass,” Carl added, “the very first of many.”

“Supposed to reach near 50º today, with sunshine,” Fred said, “Maybe March is through tormenting us.”

“I finally had to do it,” Harold, announced out of nowhere, “I has to quit barbering altogether.”

“You did what?” I asked, amazed, “You enjoy those Saturdays helping your son at the shop.”

“I’m nearly 82, and those shakes,” Harold said holding up his mug, and displaying a mild tremor, “make it impossible for me to cut anymore.”

“I’m sorry Harold,” Carl said, “the shop just won’t be the same without you.”

“Oh, I’ll be there alright,” Harold said with a smile, “somebody’s got to give advice to my boy & granddaughter—quality control, y’understand.”

"But he's 55," Carl said, "hardly a boy."

"So?" Harold smiled even more broadly, "he expects me to heckle him."