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From the Mouth of the River

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Death - it's what's for breakfast

These dark cloudy days with off and on rain start to have an adverse effect on one’s mind.

I mean, really, how much of this dreary weather can one take? You can only chase the kid’s mother around the house so many times, before she turns on ya’. At some point you’d even be willing to go work in her garden for one nice day of sunshine! Wait, did I say that? It’s all these rainy days. They will make you commit to anything.

Maybe this weather effects the wildlife as well. Deer step out in front of cars, moose stand on the railroad tracks, and fish turn belly up to osprey. It’s no wonder Seattle has the most suicides anywhere, what with three hundred and sixty four days of rain and one partly cloudy day each year!

I can’t take it any more! I think I’m going over the edge for sure this time!

It happened on a Monday morning, after an all night rain that finally let up to just a drizzle. When I got up to use the bathroom, Lovie locked the bedroom door and covered her head with a pillow.

I beat on the door, “Let me in or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll….”

“Go away, or I’ll ask my mother to move in with us,” she threatened.

Recognizing a good threat when I hear one, I gave up and trudged into the kitchen. That’s when I decided to commit culinary suicide. Yep, that’s right. I decided to cook something!

Like a six year old child left alone in the house, there was a mischievous aura about the kitchen as I stood there deciding how to proceed. Should I write a suicide note? It would definitely be a different kind of note. No one ever wrote a suicide note telling how much they enjoyed killing themselves. But, the huge mess in the kitchen and the smile on my face should be a big enough clue for the coroner when he has to tell Lovie what brought about my demise.

What with everyone trying to get me to eat healthier food for the last 30 years you would have thought I would be so accustomed to it that I would have lost my taste for “real” food. You know the kind. It’s like Mother’s milk to anyone who was raised in the South. It’s all those things they always told me would kill me if I kept eating them. So, with this weather-related depression, I decided to see if they were right. What did I have to lose?

I started out with biscuits and milk gravy over scrambled eggs. Then pork sausage patties with ham and bacon on the side with half a jar of grape jelly, followed by two sourdough hot cakes, the size of a saddle blanket, covered with cow salve (butter), drenched with molasses and Log Cabin syrup. While I was locking my lips around this, I had put on a big pot of pinto beans and ham hocks. Which, by the way, cannot be eaten without a pan of hot corn bread. And for the final touch, I washed and thinly sliced a large bowl of potatoes and onions and using the leftover bacon grease in a cast iron skillet, fried them to a golden brown!

Before I served this up, I sliced two large, fairly ripened, store-bought tomatoes and cleaned a bunch of green onions.

As I set myself down to commit this final deed, I first gave thanks to the Almighty. I gave thanks for the food I was about to enjoy and I wanted to warn of my approaching Ascension into his Kingdom, and if at all possible could the Ascending be held off until after the blackberry cobbler covered with homemade ice cream was devoured?

I thought my prayers had been answered, but as I was licking the juices off the hambone I thought I heard a booming voice in the distance and I started noticing this faint taste of Jergens lotion.

“What are you doing?” Lovie shouted at me. “Let go of my arm! You’ve licked all the hair off of it. What were you dreaming about, anyway? You kept calling me ‘hambone.’ Get up, the sun is shining and you promised to help me in the garden today. What do you want for breakfast?”

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Boots Reynolds Boots Reynolds The "internationally-renowned cowboy artist" Boots Reynolds has moved his comedic interpretation of life into the writing field with his regular column in the River Journal - From the Mouth of the River.

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