Death and S-X

Ain't no reason a'tall to be wrtin' this post, since all y'all  bloggers from our former glory days* is off in the bushes somewhar' I reckon.

Well, thar's a reason,, an' it ain't jes' to see if Aunty can still write cracker.    My friend died.

She died when she warn't s'pposed to.  Sixteen years ago.  Y'all woulda loved her evermore too had ya known her. I tole ya about her onc't I think-- how when we met my prissy prude self liked to have died in shock at all them brunette curls flying out of a red two seater Mercedes. Talk about excess!

Seems the Good Lord has been flinging these high octane folks at me regularly. ( Doan fergit now what Uncle said to mah 15 year old innocence when I declared with great solemnity and a tad of smugness, "I doan see no boys who smoke." 

"You do, now," he said.

Well, anyhoo, back to mah friend. She died in her prime, thas' the  truth. Young, high spirited, irrepressible.  survived Hodgkins at 33, after which she wrung every last bit of goody from each day, and made sure you did too, iffin' youse wif' her. Sharp bidness woman ( that's how she got that red buggy ) wif' jes' the looniest sense of humor and a wicked dare-devil streak. Definitely not mah type of BFF.  Except that at the core, we knowed we wuz akshully soul sisters in the truer meaning of soul. That part that transcends mere death.  So, I miss her, but I ain't grieving, cause I know she is seeing  the. Real Deal.

But miss her, I do. I said that already, dint I? In 16 years since, I ain't found nuthin' similar, an' ain't that grand? She be a one of a kind. Practical but whacko too. When she an  her other half, Jack, had a





set to, likely as not it be over his fastidious nature.  He was from north Midwest somewhar' and never could git hisself loose enough to be a good ole boy, though he admired the breed. He took lots of lessons under Uncle's tutelage, but most dint stick. His stellar feature be loyalty an' smarts enough to know a good woman when he met one.  But, this is the funny thang I wiz gonna tell...

An' since this blog be anonymous to most folks in my life--who doan have no clue their friend  has a secret life as Auntybelle, I can tell y'all this tale on mah dead friend and her Jack.  It's this: he wore pajamas. At first she snickered at it, but it didn't change his leopard spots.  He growed up cold on some Minnesota tundra, an' them fellas wear pajamas. She tried to shame him outa them things by tell ing his golf buddies the secret, but he warn't fazed.

Seems pjs be a bit of a put off fer her, so they took to other handy venues around the house, cause that Midwestern sensibility did not go wif' pajamas OUTSIDE the bedroom. ( I blames it on that red 
sports car--how does a man NOT  know that a woman who bought her own self such a buggy ain't the sort to admire menjams.) Now, y'all done guessed how Aunty needed smellin' salts  when this little tale of domestic bliss be shared over coffee one mornin'. Iffin' the other ladies wuz serene during this instruction on how to train your man, Aunty be mortified. I mean, Mort. I. Fied.

An' you know,  she knowed that. And wif' that mischievous giggle she said,
"so when Mr. Fastidious intones  that decent folks don't eat their midnight Cheerios in bed,  I remind him that the kitchen...."

I jumped up so quick I wiz dizzy an' went to put a fresh pot of coffee on....

The Angels above know how much I miss her.