By W.R. Jones
This pilgrim lad, like myself, has slipped schedule. Her birthday was yesterday the 13th. That is why he is using the glass as a shield. He is nearly, but not completely, certain the beautiful cranberries he picked will soften her heart to the degree she doesn’t thrash him like the last time he was late.
He also fell out of her good grace when he didn’t deliver on Thanksgiving. It couldn’t be avoided; his blunderbuss misfired. As it happened, this was a most fortunate turn of fate; he was not aiming at a wild turkey as he thought but rather an irate farmer’s prize rooster. Our pilgrim was a city boy from downtown Salem and was doing well to tell a wet cowpie from applesauce. That farmer would have ripped off one of our boy’s gold buckled shoes and thumped him in the head. Actually, they were not gold buckles as that conniving bootmaker had sworn; this Thanksgiving ruining information was revealed when they rusted within minutes of going into the cranberry bog. He returned to the cabin with a cheese and anchovy pizza purchased at the Salem Mall foodcourt.
Her name is Georgia. I know this because Ray Charles was singing about her when I started her figure; I think it was about 14 years ago. I could not get that song out of my head for days, not the whole song of course, just a single phrase, over and over and over. I swore to myself I would finish this painting by this past Thanksgiving. I came very close.