Monday, November 5, 2012


     I overheard my mother telling another lady this story when I was little; years later, she told it to me....she  said it actually happened.
   A  woman my Ma knew had a husband who worked at the mill, as did a lot of men back then. Over time, she noticed that he was getting home from the 3-11 shift a couple hours late. At first, she told herself that he was stopping off at the 2200 to have a few with his friends, but he brought home the same money as always, which meant he wasn't working overtime, either.

     Sure enough, a trusted friend told her what she dreaded to hear-her man was stepping out with a redbone from off of Pearl Avenue.

     She thought about it, and pondered, and came up with a plan....
The next day was his day off, and he went fishing at Hot Waters with a couple of buddies. When he came home about five, bucket full of white bass and perch, he found the house spotless, supper on the table (his favorites), and her, waiting with a smile and a drink for him in her hand.

     She sat him down, and fed  him to the brim, washing it all down with Old Crow. When the last plate was cleaned, and the last drop drunk, he staggered into the bedroom, stripped down to his boxers, and lay across the bed, asleep within a minute.

     This was her chance....she went to the kitchen, and got out her biggest pot, filling it half full of water, and setting it on the stove, turning the eye up high. When it was boiling, she added three boxes of Quaker Oats,
and a gallon of Br'er Rabbit Molasses, stirring it all together. Turning off the stove, she lifted the pot off the stove with two potholders, and carried it into the bedroom, where her philandering mate lay in a gluttinous stuipor.

     Then, holding the pot as high as she could, she poured the sticky, volcanic mixture over his sleeping form, from nose to toes.

     They stayed together, them-but he came straight home from then on.