The kid was about 7, I think. A rawboned skinny boy with a big scab on his nose and sparkling blue eyes. He gawked at my legs while I stacked groceries on the checkout counter, then finally looked up and caught my eye.

“You sure got ugly legs,” he observed, wrinkling his nose. “What happened?” I thought for a moment—a long moment, and almost got lost in my head. Oh, a lot, I thought, a lot has happened… But that’s not what I told him.

Summer had come to the high country, and despite the fact the appearance of my legs tends to upset some folks of tender sensitivities—an array of shrapnel wounds make them sorta “decorative”—I happily donned old bush shorts again. I mean, long pants are just, you know, too long. Besides, when you’re balancing precariously on a cane, shorts are much easier to pull on.

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