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Humor December 2013

Agelessly Yours

Christmas Coon At My Feet

By Karen White-Walker

Most people open the refrigerator and voila — a succulent turkey all seasoned, dressed and maybe garnished with a little greenery and cranberries. I open our freezer door and out plops a dead skinned raccoon and opossum.

It's that time of year when inviting delicious smells permeate your decorated home as you struggle to enjoy the holidays with the minimal amount of sweat, stress and tears.

Most people open the refrigerator and voila — a succulent turkey all seasoned, dressed and maybe garnished with a little greenery and cranberries. I open our freezer door and out plops a dead skinned raccoon and opossum. Trust me, it's the honest-to-God truth. Luckily they both just missed my arthritic toes and I was able to limp hysterically over to my trapper/hunter/fisherman of a husband and shove the rodent relatives under his nonchalant nose.

"These butchered carcasses and near mystery meat were touching my precious frozen strawberries — what's the big idea?" I demanded.

"Poor people have to eat too," he stated matter-of-factly.

"We have your monthly pension and Social Security, so what do you mean poor?"

"I don't hear you mentioning anything about your writing loot?" he was so quick to add.

"Shh, not so loud," I begged. "Big Brother may be listening. Do you want the Internal Revenue Service knocking down our door?"

"Why the hell not? Everybody else you know does."

"That's because I don't want the art of visiting to become a lost art. Besides, don't try to sidetrack me; we're talking about road kill in our freezer."

"It's not road kill, I trapped it and cleaned out their guts with these very hands."

"Don't think you're getting near me tonight," I mumbled.

"I don't know," he sighed, "but the older I get the more I only have the strength to pet a opossum."

What's a wife supposed to say to THAT? The little voice inside my disturbed head whispered, "Shut up and don't say anything," and for once I listened.

He leaned back in that darn easy chair that's glued to his behind, and with his chest all puffed out like he was about to deliver a commencement speech at Harvard or something, he explained.

"Met two elderly fishermen brothers from the Deep South a while back and they told me that every year round Christmas time, they always get a hankerin' for roasted raccoon and opossum pie. ‘Our Mama always cooked em up whenever good fortune smiled down upon us.’ Those were their exact words, ‘whenever good fortune smiled down upon us.' Sounds too damn sugary for me, but wouldn't you know, there was a catch in their voices when they said that, so I thought, what the hell."

"I never knew that you could be so sentimental toward strangers who are from a different time, place and culture. That's really the Christmas spirit and wouldn't it be wonderful if that feeling could linger all year round?"

"Well it can't!" he scoffed. "I'm just not the type, and all the nagging in the world, woman, isn't going to change that."

"Well, at least for the second, you were kind and giving to the least of your brothers."

"If people were more self-contained they could live off the fatta the lan' and then every day could feel like Christmas for them," he grunted.

"Yes, but that warm giving feeling is not for you, because you're not the type, remember?"

"Damn right, I'm not! Hell, that's the first time I've ever admitted that to you, so consider it your Christmas present."

"Intangible presents are the best kind, but it sure would have been nice if you had wrapped it with a little tenderness," I sighed.

"We're not talking Christmas miracle here, woman, be grateful for what you've got."

Right now there's no coon and opossum in my freezer, so I'm very grateful for what I don't have this holiday season.

 

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