|It was late Saturday afternoon and I was beginning to pack up the remnants from my weekend yard sale when an old beat up station wagon pulled slowly down the driveway. I glanced in their direction and was met with three hands stuck out the window all waving in unison at me. "Hey! Are you closed? Do we have time to pick through your leftovers? I told Mister here that we needed to get our butts, pardon my French, in gear or we was gonna miss all the sales and be late for the Singing," the elderly woman said.
"Nope, you're not too late. Have a look around, you might find something that you can't live without and it'll be less for me to pack up," I answered.
The car stopped and out climbed the old woman who was wearing orange lounging pants, a deep purple moo moo and black Chuck Taylor running shoes. Her wig sat perched slightly askew on her head and her straw hat sat off center the other way giving her a slightly lopsided look. She approached me immediately, extended her hand and said, "I'm Cleo, that's Mister, who I been shacked up with since '76, when my husband up and died on me. Ain't got no strings on him, he's free to come and go as he pleases, s'long as he pleases me. He He!"
I shook her hand and she continued.
"That lady there is his daughter, Sissy. She stays with us sometimes, usually when her old man goes on a drunk and starts beating up on her. I, swan, for the likes of me can't fathom the way some women put up with them goings on. I told Mister here if he ever laid a hand on me I'd cut it off as fast as I could pull my knife out. You're old man ever do that to you? Get yourself a knife, that'll keep him in line. Look at me, going off at the mouth like that. Let me get here and see what you got for sale. I'm proud to say I don't ever buy nothin' new, I get all my stuff at yard sales. Hey Mister, you got any more of that snuff with you? Let me get some, this little lady might want some. You like my outfit? I got it last week over at the community thrift store."
Mister, wearing bib overalls, a Grateful Dead t-shirt and a John Deere cap, walked over to us and offered the aforementioned can of snuff. I declined politely and so did Cleo. Mister shrugged his shoulders, drew his head back, and spat out a big ole drop of brown gooey tobacco juice that left a trail from is chin halfway down to his boots. "Wipe yourself Mister! This lady don't want to see your spit. Go get your cup..."