My sister and I took a cab to a bar together about six years ago. This was on Thanksgiving at about 10pm or something and the only time we've ever been in a taxi together. She took the front seat and asked the driver all about his life. When they got to kids, he said he had two sons. "I bet you're a good dad," she said. "How old are they?" They were in their twenties or so. "And that puts you at about fifty and up," she said. I looked at her from the backseat. "Just about," he said. "Heart attack age," she said. I told the driver we could get out where we were.
My mom was caring for a woman who had a stroke. Incidentally, this woman was a Joyce, too, married in, and she found the family disposition lamentable. So they traded stories. Years ago this woman was picking up her Joyce husband from a bricklayers' union meeting at the hall, and she caught the end of a conversation between her husband and one of his brothers.
"Heard you bought a second home," said her husband.
"Who wants to know?" said the other.
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