‘I wonder,” I thought, pulling myself out of the slop in front of the manure pile beautifully cloaked in the snow of a recent winter storm, “how long it would take for Paul to come looking for me if I had really hurt myself just then.”
Having finally put up the tree with Bing Crosby serenading me from the stereo and feeling all cozily tucked up on the couch with a cup of tea, I wanted to write you a nice, cuddly, Christmas column. I really did.
But somebody just fell through the floor of a trailer in Anderson and found a mummified body covered in cat litter, y’all.
Paul has given me an ultimatum, and I don’t like it. “Look,” he began last Saturday evening while I was kvetching (not bad for an Episcopal gal) over the lack of anything decent to watch on television, “If you would let me buy a flat screen, we could get Netflix On Demand.
Holy cow! What was that? Oh, that’s right: Thanksgiving. I nearly missed it drowned out by the Christmas music playing since Halloween and the bombardment of holiday commercials on television.
Standing behind the kitchen island as I added milk to a mug of hot tea yesterday evening, the soft autumnal light ebbing through the storm door caught my eye and, entranced by the canopy of stained glass that was being created through the leaves of the Carolina maples, I immediately began to search for a pen.
As a woman (at least that’s what recent lab tests claim I am), I seem to have always known more about my truck engine or how to mow a slope on a tractor than my own body. It’s not that I’m that much of a tomboy, but rather, I’m just relatively indifferent to all things feminine.
It bores me.
My column last week closed with the optimism of buying a new young prospect: a lovely filly, not yet started under saddle, that I felt so certain was destined to be mine that I arrived to the vetting with my truck and trailer, ready to bring her home.
