My mother rarely allowed food crumbs to linger long on our Kitchen floor and sustenance, of any kind, was never to cross the door threshold leading to our Living Room. Her Dust Buster was always charged and close at hand to corral any little runaway morsels who dared to escape the confines of our dishware. Needless to say, as a boy who ate his meals like the Cookie Monster, she constantly wielded that thing as if it were a sword poised to slay the fire breathing dragon who lived under my bed.
Now that I’m a somewhat independent adult with my own home, I’m no longer haunted by the sound of Mr. Black & Decker nipping at my heels nor am I as concerned about that fire breathing dragon.
Because, “your mama don’t work here”, mantra my sweet wife has been known to remind me of over our twenty six years of marital bliss, any grub refugees who’d rather flee from my paper plate than take a ride down my gullet, are now my responsibility to wipe clean. So, with that said, I often retreat to my front porch to find respite from table manners.
I love salted in the shell peanuts. I also love having little to no regard as to where I deposit their empty hulls. So, here I sit, being lulled to sleep by the back and forth of my rocker. The crackle of the pods which hold the heavenly legumes I so crave along with the serenade of the Carolina Wrenn perched in the Dogwood tree directly in front of me, brings color to this black and white Mayberry kinda Sunday. Life isn’t always this rich so I’ll soak it up as long as I can.
“What’s that, hon?” “Oh, yes ma’am…I’ll be sure to sweep up when I’m done”. In the meantime, I’ll revel in these salty delights and marvel at the mess I’ve made. I feel at peace that both are good for a man’s spirit.
Facing Southward 