Magic Shows

Dad could roll a cigarette with just two fingers and the tip of his tongue. I saw him do this once in a wind storm. Magically he would shave just close enough to keep his grizzled face blue by the light of a yellow moon. He could dive easy into an engine to capture a rattling rat, then twist its tail with only a wrench - a drop of oil to make it purr. He could blarney a partial truth with a waggish smile, yarn it all out to fuddle many a cocksure scholar. He was an expert drinker, astounding all-comers and never tippling over a canny knife edge. He controlled his bootstraps with a devilish dominion. When he walked in my shoes I felt I could do magic also. He would tell me that I had to be a genius to be my kind of dumb. That was old-fangled conjuring, a natural hocus-pocus, I practice a little of that myself in his roguish memory.