|
 Mrs.
Forrest has always been a compulsive feeder. Before she retired, she
was cooking for the Mule Barn truck stop’s customers, and is
singularly responsible for about three flabby tons of avoirdupois on
this nation’s truck drivers, and may have been marginally
responsible, third-hand, for a cardiac event or two.
But now she’s retired, and a widow, and her kids all have kids and
are scattered like a covey of quail. Local bachelors of a certain
age know if they should just happen to be chatting with Mrs. Forrest
on her front lawn along about supper time, there’s a dang-near dead
certainty they’ll get a meal out of it.
And, through the magic of telepathic communication and the
synchronistic wave lengths of humanity, the message about Mrs.
Forrest’s unstoppable feeding compulsion had somehow reached the
psyches of the homeless. At any rate, two of
the aforementioned drifters had knocked on Mrs. Forrest’s door and
asked if there were any chores she needed done in exchange for some
food. Well, you should’ve seen her eyes light up at that question.
She said she had a bunch of firewood that needed to be split into
kindling and if they didn’t mind doing that, she’d fix them a
chicken dinner with cream gravy. Mrs. Forrest puts cream gravy on
everything. [to top of second
column]
 |
So she busied herself in the
kitchen, and then went out to see how these fellows were doing. And
there, leaning on an axe handle, was one of them, and the other was
doing gymnastics in and around the woodpile. It was amazing. He’d
come out of a round-off flip flop and then gracefully go into a full
layout Sukuhara with a right-hand twist. She watched in awe for a
few minutes before whispering to this gymnast’s partner.
“I had no idea your friend was
an acrobat,” she whispered.
He looked at her and whispered back, “Neither did I ‘til I cracked
him on the shin with this axe.”
[Text from file received from
Slim Randles] |
