by Phyllis McCrossin

King and I have been laying low for the past two weeks.

Our daughter tested positive for COVID shortly after New Year’s Eve and quarantined herself. Since no one is exactly sure where she got it, we decided to just play it safe and not go anywhere.

What I learned during our self-imposed exile, is that even after 45 years he and I can still get along and enjoy one another’s company. We can also bicker like siblings (or an old married couple, which I suppose we are).

King and I are vaccinated and boosted. Our daughter is vaccinated but not boosted. Back home in Michigan our vaccinated but unboosted son tested positive. His unvaccinated wife also tested positive (her second time testing positive in three months). I don’t know if there is a correlation there or not. I was simply observing. As of today everyone is healthy.

No, King and I don’t live in fear.  But we also believe in science (global warming and all). I don’t really care what others believe. It’s not my circus, not my monkeys, not even my tent.

Since I don’t really care to wax poetic about anything today (I’m in the middle of a nine-book paranormal romance series), I thought I’d include an excerpt from my book here. One of my new-found Facebook friends says it’s one of his favorites…

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Our father was fairly easy to read. Norma and I swear when he got pissed off his eyebrows would become bushy. Perhaps he simply would furrow his brows together which only appeared to make his eyebrows grow. Hard to say. In any event, it was always easy to tell when Dad was angry about something. And at that point you simply said, “Yes sir,” or “No sir.”

But Dad also had a heart of gold. When friends and family called on us during Dad’s funeral visitation one of the former teachers at Hamilton High School said “you could always count on Mr. Stehower for donations for whatever the current cause. He would say, ‘How much do you need?’ And then write a check.”

And then Dad would call Mom and say, “I just gave XXX to the school, Chrissy. Balance the checkbook.” And Mom would. Sometimes we would have macaroni and cheese until the next payday, but that was the way of it.

When my parents first moved to Hamilton, Dad noticed that most of the men in the area enjoyed hunting. So in an effort to fit in, Dad purchased some type of rifle as well. I don’t know as he ever hunted, and I think I can remember him keeping it on the top shelf of his closet and selling it to a neighbor. But I could simply be remembering stories.

What I do remember is the day our pet chicken, Henny Penny, became ill.

Dad dug a hole for her and placed a mound of dirt in front of the hole. Henny Penny was placed on top of the mound. The idea was Dad would shoot the chicken, she would fall into the hole and he would cover her with dirt. (I assume his queasiness over touching a dead bird would help explain his lack of desire to take up hunting).

So Dad shot at Henny Penny. I say “shot at” as he obviously missed. He shot the dirt out from under her, she gave one gigantic squawk and took off across the street where she lived happily ever after with the neighbor’s rooster.

In our family, we always did know why the chicken crossed the road.