So.
Now.
Oil.
How to put the oil on? Crow decided that a sponge would work for the task. Sure enough, the sponge did an excellent job. Carefully, Crow rubbed oil over the sides of the pot, underneath the bottom, even on the little feet. He didn’t forget to oil the top or the handle either, though he wasn’t sure doing so was necessary. The pot looked good with its shiny coat of oil. Once he was done, Crow heaved the pot into the oven, closed the door, and went into the living room to rest. All that cooking and chopping and peeling and oiling had pretty much worn him out.
Crow guessed that he must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the phone was ringing.
“Hello.”
“Crow. It’s me. Bessie. You all ready for tomorrow?”
“Just about. Got my pot in the oven.”
“What pot?” asked Bessie.
“My gumbo pot. Got it in the oven. Seasoning. So nothing will stick,” he said.
“But Crow, the city’s providing pots. You don’t have to bring your—” Bessie’s sentence was interrupted by a roof-raising sound.
Ca-boom. CA-BOOM! CRASH!!!
“Crow!” she cried.
She heard his phone drop.
“Crow! Crow!”
What in the world could that crashing sound have been? She had to go see. In her haste, she couldn’t find her car keys. Rats! Where were they? After a few minutes of searching, Bessie gave up, put on a sweater over her purple lounging pajamas, and set out in a trot. It was a quarter mile to Crow’s house.
The headlights of Mayor Tinker’s car fell on Bessie as she hurried along on the side of the street. He rolled down his window.
“Bessie? That you? What are you doing walking at this time of evening?”
She was out of breath and obviously upset. “It’s Crow,” she huffed. “Something’s wrong. I don’t know what. We were talking. There was this big bang. He dropped the phone.”
Mayor Tinker reached over and opened the passenger door for her to get in. When they arrived at Crow’s house, his front door was unlocked.
“Crow,” called the mayor, who went in first, “you all right?”
“Crow?” called Bessie.
There was a terrible smell in the house. They went on in and found Crow in the kitchen, standing, dizzy and dazed in front of his stove. What once had been an oven door was now a black, smoking hole. The door had been blown clean off its hinges and had landed across the room, where it now lay melting the vinyl floor. Also of note were the remains of a couple of cans of wasp and hornet spray that could be seen in other parts of the room.
As for the stove?
Dead, all of its wiring fried to a crisp.
“Crow! My word! What happened here?” said Bessie. “You could have been killed!”
She was so glad that he hadn’t been.
I RECENTLY ATTENDED the fifth annual Ella Louise Gumbo Cook-off. It’s an event that I try never to miss. I know that while I’m there, I’ll get to see old friends, catch up on the local gossip and goings on in the town, and always, always hear the tale of how Crow Buxley, preparing to make gumbo, nearly blew up his house.
Poor Crow.
He’s taken a lot of ribbing over the years. Luckily, he’s good-natured about it, even though the story grows bigger and funnier every time that it’s told. When Crow overhears someone relating the tale to me, when he sees me nodding and pretending that it’s the first time I’ve ever heard the story, he sneaks me a wink.
I know exactly what that wink means.
Sometime later that day, he and I will slip off somewhere by ourselves. We’ll get us a couple of Dr. Peppers, find a comfortable, out-of-the-way place to sit, and have us a nice long chat.
Well out of the earshot of the others, Crow’ll tell me about Molly Jan and Polly Ann Pierce’s recent shopping trip to Dallas, and why they are no longer allowed to set foot inside Neiman Marcus, their all-time favorite department store.
Crow will tell me about the crazy and up-until-now covered-up incident involving the leaky baptistery over at Chosen Vessel Church and what that has to do with the stitches on the forehead of Millard Fry.
I’ll learn touching details about the melancholy romance between Melissa Bates, waitress at the Wild Flour, and Tim Hartford, the town mime. He’ll tell me why folks are hoping and praying (bless those two kids’ hearts) that it’ll last.
Eventually, Crow and I will finish our cold drinks. I’ll be the first one to look at my watch, stand up, and stretch. “Guess I best be heading toward home,” I’ll say.
“When you expect to be back up our way?” Crow will ask.
“Soon,” I’ll say. And it’s the truth. In a place like Ella Louise, there are always more stories to be shared. And since tales of small-town life are among my most favorite things, I’ll be back for more.
You can count on that.
Annette loves to hear from her readers. If you wish to contact her, write to
Annette Smith, P.O. Box 213, Grandview TX 76050
or e-mail her at [email protected]
For information about scheduling Annette to speak at your next event, contact
Speak Up Speaker Services (888) 870-7719
or on the web at www.speakupspeakerservices.com
Other Books by Annette Smith
The Whispers of Angels
Stories to Feed Your Soul
Help! My Little Girl’s Growing Up
Homemade Humble Pie and Other Slices of Life
Everyday Angels
Watermelon Days and Firefly Nights: Heartwarming Scenes from Small Town Life Page 17
