Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan pulled his 1953 MG into the spot reserved for Armand Leggpuller, the Physical Therapist at the “Wise Acres Home for Old Guys,” named for Carol Wise, the famed anthropologist whose pioneering work revealed the only consistent principal of elderly male natural-habitat life: “They think they’re funny.”
“If they call me out on a Sunday morning for THIS bunch,” he muttered, “I’ll park wherever I durn well please. Besides, a little exercise should appeal to a physical terrorist. Let him walk.”
“Thank God you’re here, Rev. Nathan,” said Ann Xious, the Wise Acres administrator, running out to meet him.
“It’s not always a good thing when people are glad to see you,” thought The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan. (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him.
“You simply must talk to Austin Sitylimitz. Nothing’s been the same since that old country singer came here,” said Ann Xious.
“Has he been singing Chad Mitchell Trio songs again?”
“Even worse. He won’t let Mia Kulpah, that visitor lady from ‘Come Here Or Go To Hell Fundamentalist Progressive Bible Finagling Church’ leave his room. He keeps holding her hand and begging her to tell him more about how Jesus wants him to be rich.”
“What’s wrong with that? I’d think a church lady like Mia Kulpah would be glad to have an old far.. that is, an old man like Austin Sitylimitz be asking to hear more about how Jesus wants him to be rich. That’s what they advertise on Critter, the social networking site where people can post a “bleet” about stuff like that.”
“Well, you almost said the operative word… oh, just go talk to him, won’t you?”
So Randall Nathan maneuvered his way through the wheel chairs in the hallway, where old men were regaling one another with tales of the three blond women with Parkinson’s who went into a bar and… he didn’t hear the rest of it, because Mia Kulpah came running down the hall, her face a ghastly purple mask. She ran out the front doors and fell on her knees and kissed the concrete of the parking lot. At least, that’s what it looked like she was doing.
Randall went on until he reached the room of Austin Sitylimitz, where the strains of a strained git-fiddle and a frog-like voice were singing, “Bring me little water, Sylvie, bring me little water now…” He broke off when Randall Nathan walked into the room.
“Good to hear you singing again, Austin,”
“Hades, I ain’t singin’. I’m trying to get that durn nurse Sylvie to bring me some water. I’m parched from having that durn church lady, Mia Kulpah, in here. You got anything to drink?”
Randall pulled his communion flask out of his sleeve like a magician and gave Austin Sitylimitz a swig.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” sighed Austin. “That tastes like Reunited Lambrusco.”
“Speaking of church ladies,” said Randall, “I saw Mia Kulpa running down the hall.”
“Yeah, I let her go. I ran out of ammo.”
“Ammo?”
“Yeah, that dame doesn’t come here to bring the word of God, or comfort, or anything else. She just wants to mark me off her list of stuff to do. Last night they fed us government surplus sweet persimmons, and they’d been working up into a storm inside of me. She came in here and started spouting stuff about Jesus and how he wants everybody to be rich and that’s how you know you’re saved, and so I should give her church all my money so God will make me rich. I felt real sorry for Jesus, what with friends like that, you know. Then them sweet ‘simmons… well, I just kept holding onto her hand and let it rip.”
“I’m sure Jesus is glad to count you as one of his friends,” said Randall Nathan, but he left shortly thereafter.
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to The Residence at McCormick’s Creek, Spencer, IN, because… The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
3 Time Losers
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
The phone rang. Claire Nathan looked at the caller ID. She has been screening calls since her old boyfriend found her on PlaceMat, the social network site for cooks and decorators. He now has his own cooking show on the Faux Network, Cooking With a Boy Named Sous.
But it wasn’t Chef Sous. It was the Jen U. Kroc Periwinkle County Library & Plastic Surgery Center.
“Hmm, I wonder what they want,” mused Claire. “Randall, you didn’t take any of your plastic soldiers to the JUCPCL&PS after we dog-sat with Shingles and she or he got into them, did you?”
“It’s stupid to suggest I would take anything precious to those chainsaw artists,” said Randall.
Claire punched the “on” button.
“You’ve had a book out since last May,” said Libby Rarian.
“I have not,” gasped Claire.
“Yes you have,” insisted Libby. “It’s not been checked in, so it has to be out. Our computer never lies.”
“You don’t even have a computer,” said Claire.
“Yes we do. It’s in the basement so Igor, our circulation moderator, doesn’t have to interact with patrons. He had a bad experience with one once. She looked at him.”
“Sounds sort of like my husband,” said Claire.
“Whatever,” said Libby. “But you still have ‘The Secret Love Life of Persimmons,’ and there’s a waiting list.”
Randall could see a transcript of the conversation on the TV, since Periwinkle County’s electronic confusion provider, A T & Clueless, got the ions for their system mixed up with the signals from C. D. Romm’s pacemaker.
“That’s a stupid book,” muttered Randall. “Whoever heard of a persimmon being secretive about anything?”
Claire hung up the phone and turned to her husband.
“Lib Rarian claims I have a book I never even heard of, and they… they… It’s unfair. I never even had that book, and they say I didn’t return it,” she sputtered.
“Oh, just buy them a new copy and let it go. It would be stupid to do anything else,” said Randall.
“But what if I get arrested for something else? Then I’ll have a record. I’ll be considered an habitual criminal. Remember that parking ticket I got? It’s three strikes and you’re out. The next one will be the third.”
“Oh, that’s stupid. What else would you get arrested for?”
“I’m thinking murder might be a good possibility,” said Claire.
***
{The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.}
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
The phone rang. Claire Nathan looked at the caller ID. She has been screening calls since her old boyfriend found her on PlaceMat, the social network site for cooks and decorators. He now has his own cooking show on the Faux Network, Cooking With a Boy Named Sous.
But it wasn’t Chef Sous. It was the Jen U. Kroc Periwinkle County Library & Plastic Surgery Center.
“Hmm, I wonder what they want,” mused Claire. “Randall, you didn’t take any of your plastic soldiers to the JUCPCL&PS after we dog-sat with Shingles and she or he got into them, did you?”
“It’s stupid to suggest I would take anything precious to those chainsaw artists,” said Randall.
Claire punched the “on” button.
“You’ve had a book out since last May,” said Libby Rarian.
“I have not,” gasped Claire.
“Yes you have,” insisted Libby. “It’s not been checked in, so it has to be out. Our computer never lies.”
“You don’t even have a computer,” said Claire.
“Yes we do. It’s in the basement so Igor, our circulation moderator, doesn’t have to interact with patrons. He had a bad experience with one once. She looked at him.”
“Sounds sort of like my husband,” said Claire.
“Whatever,” said Libby. “But you still have ‘The Secret Love Life of Persimmons,’ and there’s a waiting list.”
Randall could see a transcript of the conversation on the TV, since Periwinkle County’s electronic confusion provider, A T & Clueless, got the ions for their system mixed up with the signals from C. D. Romm’s pacemaker.
“That’s a stupid book,” muttered Randall. “Whoever heard of a persimmon being secretive about anything?”
Claire hung up the phone and turned to her husband.
“Lib Rarian claims I have a book I never even heard of, and they… they… It’s unfair. I never even had that book, and they say I didn’t return it,” she sputtered.
“Oh, just buy them a new copy and let it go. It would be stupid to do anything else,” said Randall.
“But what if I get arrested for something else? Then I’ll have a record. I’ll be considered an habitual criminal. Remember that parking ticket I got? It’s three strikes and you’re out. The next one will be the third.”
“Oh, that’s stupid. What else would you get arrested for?”
“I’m thinking murder might be a good possibility,” said Claire.
***
{The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.}
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Clara's Snow Man
Periwinkle Chronicles: Tales of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
Sheriff Omar slouched into The Hell’s Angles Biker Bar & Geometry Club just as Constance Comment was ending the Chai Chai dance lessons, which requires one to sip tea from beer goggles while doing the cha cha.
The sheriff had a rather large and unpleasant looking lump in the middle of his shaved head.
“You’re never going to look like Yul Brynner, Sharif, so give up the shaved look,” said Constance. “It only makes your brain bulge more obvious.”
“How’d you get that there brain bulge anyway, Sheriff?” asked Zeke Domkowski.
“I got called out to Bessie Bandervilt’s house. Kate Bates had took her home after the Geopardy tournament the Baptist ladies had, and I guess Bessie was feeling pretty good, ‘cause she won a treasure map, so she decided she and Kate and Clara Wembley, Kate’s three-year-old granddaughter, should build a snow man in the yard. After they did that, they were sitting in Bessie’s kitchen, where she does her pig taxidermy, and looking out the window, and that big deer, the one they call John, he and his gang attacked that snow man.”
“Why in the world?” exclaimed Constance.
“Well, it seems Bessie doesn’t keep any carrots in the house, ‘cause they remind her of a basketball team she doesn’t like, so she put a persimmon on the snow man for a nose, and Kate put sweet potatoes on for its ears, and little Clara put them little cheery tomatoes down its front for buttons. You know how that John deer and his gang hate red. Reminds him of a tractor brand he doesn’t like.”
“So you got that brain bulge trying to chase John and his gang off?”
“No, little Clara had already grabbed a rolling pin and chased ‘em off by the time I got there. Clara was still holding that rolling pin when I said, ‘Dressed like that, the snow man was askin’ for it.’”
***
(The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is never coincidental.) Today a Golden Persimmon goes to Lynne Hendershott Wilson.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
Sheriff Omar slouched into The Hell’s Angles Biker Bar & Geometry Club just as Constance Comment was ending the Chai Chai dance lessons, which requires one to sip tea from beer goggles while doing the cha cha.
The sheriff had a rather large and unpleasant looking lump in the middle of his shaved head.
“You’re never going to look like Yul Brynner, Sharif, so give up the shaved look,” said Constance. “It only makes your brain bulge more obvious.”
“How’d you get that there brain bulge anyway, Sheriff?” asked Zeke Domkowski.
“I got called out to Bessie Bandervilt’s house. Kate Bates had took her home after the Geopardy tournament the Baptist ladies had, and I guess Bessie was feeling pretty good, ‘cause she won a treasure map, so she decided she and Kate and Clara Wembley, Kate’s three-year-old granddaughter, should build a snow man in the yard. After they did that, they were sitting in Bessie’s kitchen, where she does her pig taxidermy, and looking out the window, and that big deer, the one they call John, he and his gang attacked that snow man.”
“Why in the world?” exclaimed Constance.
“Well, it seems Bessie doesn’t keep any carrots in the house, ‘cause they remind her of a basketball team she doesn’t like, so she put a persimmon on the snow man for a nose, and Kate put sweet potatoes on for its ears, and little Clara put them little cheery tomatoes down its front for buttons. You know how that John deer and his gang hate red. Reminds him of a tractor brand he doesn’t like.”
“So you got that brain bulge trying to chase John and his gang off?”
“No, little Clara had already grabbed a rolling pin and chased ‘em off by the time I got there. Clara was still holding that rolling pin when I said, ‘Dressed like that, the snow man was askin’ for it.’”
***
(The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is never coincidental.) Today a Golden Persimmon goes to Lynne Hendershott Wilson.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentines & Brains
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
Randall Nathan picked up his grandson, eleven-year-old Johnny Kendy, after school, so they could buy Valentine gifts for Johnny’s grandmother and mother and sister. They went to the Persimmon Pot Floating Gift Shop & Vulcanizing Center, on the Volvo River.
“You think we should get them Vulcan blood pressure kits?” said Johnny, looking over the shelves on the starboard side of the shop.
“No, those are joke gifts, since Vulcans have no blood pressure,” his grandfather replied. “You can’t get joke gifts for Valentine’s day. Women take this very seriously. Let’s go over to port side and see what they have.”
They saw a flock of women and teen-aged girls clustered around a woman dressed like a box of chocolates who was showing them a pink purse.
“It’s very small, because your purse can never be too small or too pink” the chocolate box woman said, “so there is room only for the most necessary things. Here are different sections for a lipstick selection, and here is a pocket for false eyebrows, and one for eye liner. And here, in a secret compartment at the bottom, is a glass vial for perfume.”
The women all ooed and ahhed. “How wonderful,” they exclaimed. “It’s even ready if you have a perfume emergency.”
“We’ll get three of those,” Randall said to Johnny.
Johnny shook his head and muttered, “I’ll never understand the way their brains work.”
“That,” said his grandfather, “is the beginning of wisdom.”
***
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
Randall Nathan picked up his grandson, eleven-year-old Johnny Kendy, after school, so they could buy Valentine gifts for Johnny’s grandmother and mother and sister. They went to the Persimmon Pot Floating Gift Shop & Vulcanizing Center, on the Volvo River.
“You think we should get them Vulcan blood pressure kits?” said Johnny, looking over the shelves on the starboard side of the shop.
“No, those are joke gifts, since Vulcans have no blood pressure,” his grandfather replied. “You can’t get joke gifts for Valentine’s day. Women take this very seriously. Let’s go over to port side and see what they have.”
They saw a flock of women and teen-aged girls clustered around a woman dressed like a box of chocolates who was showing them a pink purse.
“It’s very small, because your purse can never be too small or too pink” the chocolate box woman said, “so there is room only for the most necessary things. Here are different sections for a lipstick selection, and here is a pocket for false eyebrows, and one for eye liner. And here, in a secret compartment at the bottom, is a glass vial for perfume.”
The women all ooed and ahhed. “How wonderful,” they exclaimed. “It’s even ready if you have a perfume emergency.”
“We’ll get three of those,” Randall said to Johnny.
Johnny shook his head and muttered, “I’ll never understand the way their brains work.”
“That,” said his grandfather, “is the beginning of wisdom.”
***
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Parka Polka
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Stan McMorse tapped and snapped his way into “The Puce Julius Persimmon Bar & Decorating Salon” and tapped and snapped his way over to the booth where the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, was drinking a persimmon roughy and whittling on a puzzleword cross.
“Hey, Rev, you know McMorse code. You going to join?”
“You know my rule. No meetings unless music is involved.”
“Well, you must not have understood the message I just tapped out. We’re starting up The Pulsating Persimmons Barbershop Chorus again.”
“I understood perfectly well,” opined Dr. Nathan. “Besides, I read about it in The Old Weird Herald.”
“Come on, Rev, it’ll be great to have the guys singing together again,” he said, as he tapped around the room, handing out fliers about the restoration plans of The Pulsating Persimmons. “We could even do one of your songs. How’s about The Parka Polka?”
He jumped onto a chair at the table where Kay Pasa and Shirley Knott sat with Roald Oates and began to sing, with a tune that sounded a great deal like The Pennsylvania Polka:
The wind chill’s 100 and I mean below
Let’s do the parka polka
The pipes are all frozen, the water won’t flow
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Roald Oates stood and joined him with a mealy baritone.
Your hands are in mittens, your face in a mask
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Are you a woman or is that too much to ask
Let’s do the Parka Polka
From the corner Ole Aginous joined in with an oily bass.
You may be a bow-wow, I couldn’t care less
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Bundled up like that I couldn’t even guess
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Al Fredo joined them with the high tenor, extending his hand to Kay Pasa.
Stick out your hand, put your mitten in mine
Let’s do the Parka Polka
If you are a woman please give me a sign
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Kay gave him a sign. The men ignored it and continued to sing.
There is one thing to know that I really need
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Are you going to follow or will you lead
Let’s do the Parka Polka
All the men in the place, with the exception of the song’s author, were now singing.
I love you madly, our romance can’t fail
Let’s do the Parka Polka
But the only way I know you’re female is by the way you do the Parka Polka.
They finished and applauded themselves. Shirley Knott was reading the flier.
“This thing says that all men of good character are welcome.”
“Makes you understand why they had to fold the first time, doesn’t it?” said Randall Nathan.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Stan McMorse tapped and snapped his way into “The Puce Julius Persimmon Bar & Decorating Salon” and tapped and snapped his way over to the booth where the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, was drinking a persimmon roughy and whittling on a puzzleword cross.
“Hey, Rev, you know McMorse code. You going to join?”
“You know my rule. No meetings unless music is involved.”
“Well, you must not have understood the message I just tapped out. We’re starting up The Pulsating Persimmons Barbershop Chorus again.”
“I understood perfectly well,” opined Dr. Nathan. “Besides, I read about it in The Old Weird Herald.”
“Come on, Rev, it’ll be great to have the guys singing together again,” he said, as he tapped around the room, handing out fliers about the restoration plans of The Pulsating Persimmons. “We could even do one of your songs. How’s about The Parka Polka?”
He jumped onto a chair at the table where Kay Pasa and Shirley Knott sat with Roald Oates and began to sing, with a tune that sounded a great deal like The Pennsylvania Polka:
The wind chill’s 100 and I mean below
Let’s do the parka polka
The pipes are all frozen, the water won’t flow
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Roald Oates stood and joined him with a mealy baritone.
Your hands are in mittens, your face in a mask
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Are you a woman or is that too much to ask
Let’s do the Parka Polka
From the corner Ole Aginous joined in with an oily bass.
You may be a bow-wow, I couldn’t care less
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Bundled up like that I couldn’t even guess
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Al Fredo joined them with the high tenor, extending his hand to Kay Pasa.
Stick out your hand, put your mitten in mine
Let’s do the Parka Polka
If you are a woman please give me a sign
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Kay gave him a sign. The men ignored it and continued to sing.
There is one thing to know that I really need
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Are you going to follow or will you lead
Let’s do the Parka Polka
All the men in the place, with the exception of the song’s author, were now singing.
I love you madly, our romance can’t fail
Let’s do the Parka Polka
But the only way I know you’re female is by the way you do the Parka Polka.
They finished and applauded themselves. Shirley Knott was reading the flier.
“This thing says that all men of good character are welcome.”
“Makes you understand why they had to fold the first time, doesn’t it?” said Randall Nathan.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Unknown Precipitation
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The big snow storm hit Periwinkle County, like it did the rest of the country.
Naturally, everyone in the county heeded Sheriff Omar’s admonition to stay off the roads. Instead they drove their snowmobiles and ATMs on the sidewalks and through people’s yards and on the extensive network of persimmon harvesting pathways.
“Shouldn’t that be ATVs?” asked Priscilla Shufflebottom, the famous persimmon polka dancer, who was down from Kapetal City for a concert and got snowed in at the Veggiedale fire house.
“No. Thirdfifth Bank believes the next big thing in money moving is ATMs on wheels, taking the money to the people, so to speak, so they give mobile ATMs out to people who go where’s there’s lots of drinking and not much sense. The only problem is that an ATM on wheels is sort of subject to theft.”
Naturally, the storm brought out the blizzard buzzards, large wild turkey-like creatures who appear only when there is bad weather, since they prefer frozen entrees.
The storm was all anyone talked about at the coffee shops.
“It’s all because they brought in them Chipahoys to do that snow dance at the “Persimmon Harvest and Pumpkin Stand Church” at the winter festival,” said Zeke Domkowski. “Them’s tough cookies. They really know how to dance.”
“Did you see the report on us on ‘The Whether Channel?’ asked Roald Oates. “They couldn’t tell whether we were getting snowed, or what.”
“I don’t know why they bothered to send that Jim Cannedstory here to do a report,” said Bessie Bandervilt, who is 94 and so called Kate Bates and told her she had to go to the emergency room immediately, so Kate spent three hours shoveling out her brother’s Jeep and went to get Bessie, only to find out on the way to the hospital that Bessie had meant “The Emergency Room Coffee Shop & Unionsuit Hall.”
“Well,” said Kate, reasonably, “we’re always in one of those lines on the map where you can’t tell if it is rain or hail or snow or ice. On the whether map, they just put Unknown Precipitation.”
“It’s a pretty sorry place to live when even your precipitation can’t be identified,” said Evangeline Northby-Northwest.
***
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
The big snow storm hit Periwinkle County, like it did the rest of the country.
Naturally, everyone in the county heeded Sheriff Omar’s admonition to stay off the roads. Instead they drove their snowmobiles and ATMs on the sidewalks and through people’s yards and on the extensive network of persimmon harvesting pathways.
“Shouldn’t that be ATVs?” asked Priscilla Shufflebottom, the famous persimmon polka dancer, who was down from Kapetal City for a concert and got snowed in at the Veggiedale fire house.
“No. Thirdfifth Bank believes the next big thing in money moving is ATMs on wheels, taking the money to the people, so to speak, so they give mobile ATMs out to people who go where’s there’s lots of drinking and not much sense. The only problem is that an ATM on wheels is sort of subject to theft.”
Naturally, the storm brought out the blizzard buzzards, large wild turkey-like creatures who appear only when there is bad weather, since they prefer frozen entrees.
The storm was all anyone talked about at the coffee shops.
“It’s all because they brought in them Chipahoys to do that snow dance at the “Persimmon Harvest and Pumpkin Stand Church” at the winter festival,” said Zeke Domkowski. “Them’s tough cookies. They really know how to dance.”
“Did you see the report on us on ‘The Whether Channel?’ asked Roald Oates. “They couldn’t tell whether we were getting snowed, or what.”
“I don’t know why they bothered to send that Jim Cannedstory here to do a report,” said Bessie Bandervilt, who is 94 and so called Kate Bates and told her she had to go to the emergency room immediately, so Kate spent three hours shoveling out her brother’s Jeep and went to get Bessie, only to find out on the way to the hospital that Bessie had meant “The Emergency Room Coffee Shop & Unionsuit Hall.”
“Well,” said Kate, reasonably, “we’re always in one of those lines on the map where you can’t tell if it is rain or hail or snow or ice. On the whether map, they just put Unknown Precipitation.”
“It’s a pretty sorry place to live when even your precipitation can’t be identified,” said Evangeline Northby-Northwest.
***
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
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