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I Come To The Garden Alone

BudLiteGood morning, y’all. A cold bright day in the mountains. While the temps have dropped precipitously, the precipitation has stayed away, making life tolerable. It’s the time of year when the age old battle of , “I’m too cold”, “I’m too hot”, that most of us married folks play out with our better halves, is a stalemate. Mulva can just add a layer to obtain optimum, and I’m comfortably dressed enough to not be picked up for public indecency. Fall is a good time of year.

Speaking of public indecency, I still haven’t shaken off my encounter with the Right Reverend Dale E. Bread’s yahoo this past week. Now, I know, in truth, it was not in “public”, but it was certainly indecent. I’ve tried to discuss my feelings with Mulva, and let me tell you, as a confessor, Mulva lacks a lot. I guess Mulva’s constant request for “details” was confusing to me. I explained the events as well as I could, and I was hoping for help with the best way for us to extricate ourselves from this God-awful mess. I mean, the milk of our Christian charity of taking in the wronged Alva Bread and her seven hellions, has now curdled in the pitcher.

How can we allow the Right Reverend Dale E. Bread to continue to have his cake and eat it too? Particularly, with me buying the goldarned cake. If I was to get all judgmental, I’d point out that it looks like it’s not just one cake under consideration. I mean we know about Ms. Ophelia Bottoms, I suspect Ms. Anita Goodman, and my visit to¬†Number Thirty Nine confirmed the conjugal status with his current wife. The mind boggles. How many women can one man “minister” to? Yes, I made a pun. Forgive me, I’ve got to try to laugh about some of this to quell the rage. To my credit, I haven’t used a “laying of hands” analogy, yet.

Mulva’s quest for “details” has offered me no opinions, no solutions. I need to know the best way to get the Reverend and his brood, as far, as quickly, from TackyToo as possible. Where some might see an “affair of the heart”, or even a Telemundo novela, I see the overwhelming potential for crime tape being wrapped around TackyToo. I’m envisioning the entire park wrapped up like a gigantic present, and here at Christmas time, no less.

As previously stated, our little community here at TackyToo rivals the National Guard Armory over in Blairsville for weaponry. Now, the Armory might beat us in sheer numbers of weapons and ammunition, and I’m saying might, I believe TackyToo has the edge in sophistication. It appears to me that private citizens can buy the new, really cool stuff on the internet before Congress can agree on how much and how many. Is there a chance that the general population has more sophisticated weapons than the local police? Hillbilly, please, of course.

Which brings us back to my concern of getting the Right Reverend Dale E. Bread and his family to heck out of here before I get another 7AM emergency call, and the emergency call is not a stopped up toilet. Folks in my neighborhood shoot people for “sneaking around”. Now, “sneaking around” can take the form of messing with somebody’s wife, or just being where you shouldn’t be at an odd hour of the day. Either way, you’d be “sneaking around”, and fair game in these parts. We have a season for shooting deer, people are always open season.

Since Mulva was of absolutely no help, I decided to clear my head by going to my bulb garden to plant some of the bulbs I’ve been gifted. The irony is not lost on me that I was cleaning up one mess that the Bread brood has created while I’m trying to noodle how to prevent another mess. After I got everything squared away, and all of the new bulbs planted in what I hoped would be an attractive pattern, I mulled over the idea of getting Mulva to go over to the Lowes and pick me up one of those ready made picket fences to border off my garden. I decided that Damian, I mean Devin, would just see it as a challenge and destroy the fence as well as the flowers. There’s nothing worse than being in a battle of wits with an eight year old.

I need to being casting my Breads out, just not on the waters, where I hear they’ll return.

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