For all and sundry who may be interested in the ongoing “perils of Bena Mae” regarding my recent accident, I would like to announce that I am coping but just barely. The left arm that received the horrific cut is healing nicely, but as yet I am forced to sit as though I were sitting on eggs…very carefully.
Due to the niceties of so many kind people, I am eating well, even better than usual. I just finished a mess of fresh turnip greens and cornbread (no buttermilk), the turnip greens grown and cooked for me by a thoughtful friend. My fridge is running out of space with little Tupperware-filled containers of soup, chicken and dumplings, harvest casseroles, fried apple pies and other goodies too numerous to mention, all given to me in the spirit of compassion. I feel like Miss Emma Watson in the Andy Griffith series when she took to her sickbed because the female druggist wouldn’t sell her her pills. Like Miss Emma, I just may milk this situation for all I can get out of it.
Isn’t it wonderful that in the face of diversity, the Good Samaritans in a small town appear as if by magic. It re-inforces my opinion that people in small towns are the salt of the earth.
That said, the fall colors that we look forward to each year, have been very disappointing in my area. The bright orange, gold and russet hues have been few and far between. The leaves around here turned a drab brown and fell from the trees almost overnight. Since fall is my favorite season of the year, I am left with this feeling of loss. Hopefully, next year…
Looking on the bright side, we can look forward to the end of the wrap-around 24/7 flood of political news that has dominated the media since Noah built the ark…or so it seems. I am overly tired of maps of red and blue states, graphs and polls and percentages that seem to change by the hour. I look forward to the vacuum all this political noise will leave to our overburdened ears. But what will Pat Buchanan do for a pastime? Don’t get me wrong, I like Pat. His grin and Irish wit can be refreshing.
After this week we can fast-forward to Christmas catalogues and the incessant sounds of “The Little Drummer Boy” for the next couple of months. Oh, my. No rest for the weary.
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