The young lady sitting next to us at the bar
ordered a rose wine. I asked her about it.
She said it was dry. The conversation took

off from there. We discussed our common
alma mater and how this department was
progressive and that was not and one had

to be careful in choosing. Turns out I am a
friend of her minister grandfather, a legend
of progressive causes and suffering grievously

the consequences of living in a conservative
area. I told her a couple of humorous stories
about her grandfather’s travails. We laughed

and then we bemoaned the sorry state of
affairs in America today due to the present
federal administration. My wife and I bought

the glass of dry rose for her. We hugged; she
left. The old, white curmudgeon sitting a few
seats down the bar was finishing his prime

rib dinner and I wanted to tell him a great
story about a friend who ate prime rib in
a fancy downtown steak restaurant in

Chicago and how it didn’t compare to that
served at the local restaurant for half
the price. I asked if I could tell him

a cute, quick story. He told me to get
lost and that he had heard my conversation
with the young woman. I slapped him on

the back saying, “God bless you, brother.
We are all just doing the Jesus work.”
He almost choked on the last piece.