Sunday

Here it is, my favorite day of the week. I've finished reading the paper. Had my pot of tea and eaten an English muffin. Time to rise and work just as soon as the tiny Carolina Wren outside my window finishes her song.

There, she's done. As soon as my lovely wife arrives home from church I will gently push her out the garage door and place a bucket of soapy water near her feet and a sponge in her hand and point towards my truck. It's filthy. I'm embarrassed to drive the thing. There are standards, don't 'ya know.

I'm sure she'll not mind the mixture of cold water on a fifty degree windy morning. She's made of tough good Georgia stock, fine breed those Southern peaches. I'll, of course, lend a hand. The tires could stand a bit of air. Oil level requires a check, and perhaps the coolant needs a topping off.  Don't worry, I'll stand by in case her wash water needs another shot of liquid soap.

As I wait for her I should make preps for our dinner. Remember the tease I posted, of course you do, the chicken dish...yep, that one. Thing is the dadgum chicken, a whole beauty, is partially frozen. My Georgia peach forgot to take it from the freezer. I'd left instructions, in plain simple English, over the phone. It a whole chicken...needs to be butchered, reduced to portions, but in its current state that's kinda hard. To give her credit she did remove a package of pork chops and they are nicely thawed.

I'm sure she'll not mind spanking a sparkle onto my dirty truck.

*****

The weight of procrastination sits heavily on my shoulders. So, I sit and wait her return and think of you.

I envy you, all my Northern friends with your deep cold snow and your houses all snug with the warmth of wood fires. The smell of freshly baked bread or biscuits with perhaps a bottle of honey, or better yet, a big bottle of real cane syrup proudly placed at the center of the breakfast table with fresh ground coffee all enjoyed by the light of your Aladdin lamp. I bet you've taken your grandmother's black and crusted dutch oven and placed it on the old wood stove and it simmers a wonderful venison stew.

Later you'll settle back with a good book, wool clad feet towards the fire. The dog nestled nearby and you'll listen as the winter winds howl you towards nirvana. Do you truly understand just how lucky you are to live so far from that imaginary Mason-Dixon line. Well, do you....

     
 Here I sit. The morning temperature now stands at fifty-seven degrees. The weather bug predicts sixty-seven under partially cloudy skies. The river is flat since the wind has died to nothing and a half. I suppose I should get outside and move my truck and get her bucket of water and sponge ready, maybe an old towel so she'll be able to dry the spots from the trucks finish....it just isn't cool to drive a spotted truck under this Florida sunshine.

You bunch of lucky people you...

Stephen