The Good Samaritan


About halfway home from work, there was a loud bang like something had hit the side of the car. What was that noise? Then the car began to drive funny and was hard to control. By the time we got to the right lane, it was obvious we had problems. The tire had blown out and we were riding on the rim of the wheel, barely able to get off the road.

The tire was in shreds. So much for “drive flat” tires.

Here it was about 988 degrees and we were sitting on the side of the Interstate with a flat tire. I called AAA for emergency roadside assistance. “Are you safe?” They asked. I guess that’s a routine question. “About as safe as you can be stranded on an Interstate highway.” At least we were off the road.

AAA would make us a priority, they said. Somebody would be there in 90 minutes. 90 minutes? Good grief. That’s priority? If it takes that long in a populated area, I wondered how long it would take if we broke down in a remote location.

Nothing to do but wait.

We left the motor running so the air conditioner would work and watched the $4 per gallon gas slowly drain away. We put on the emergency blinkers. Cars roared by us at a deafening 70 mph, and we hoped no one would swerve into us.

The police flew by and pulled over a speeder up the road, but didn’t come back to check on us. Not that they could have done anything but call a tow truck anyhow, which we had already done.

Then a car pulled up behind us. The driver said he worked in the automotive field and offered to change the tire. He found the jack under the back seat, got the tire from under the car, jacked it up and changed the tire.

We were soon out of the heat and on our way, thanks to the help of a stranger. I called AAA back to cancel the tow and I told them a Good Samaritan changed it.

Do you know why people who do kindnesses for strangers are called Good Samaritans? It comes from a story about a man who was attacked by thieves and left by the side of the road. Others passed him by without stopping, but a man from Samaria stopped and helped him.

Anyhow, I had planned to go get a haircut that evening, so I went on to the beauty shop after the incident was over. While I was waiting, a lady was there trying to get a haircut and take care of two little kids who were wriggling and crying. Where’s her husband? He should be babysitting the kids.

When finished, the lady tried to pay with a check, but the shop wouldn’t accept checks. After she left to go to the bank for money, another customer who had seen the problem paid her bill as well as his own.

That’s weird! Another Good Samaritan? Two in a row?

Then I realized that I had messed up. Guess I wasn’t paying attention when that last urban legend was forwarded by email. Someone did a random act of kindness for me. This was my opportunity for payback and I let someone else do the paying.

In the legends, someone helps you and then you are given an opportunity to help someone back unknowingly. Undoubtedly, that was the stranger’s wife and kids who didn’t have the money to pay for a haircut. According to legend, I paid her bill and then found out the reason she was there with the kids was because her husband was helping someone with a flat tire on the Interstate.

I never was good at urban legends. I guess that’s why they are called “urban legends” instead of urban realities. In reality, things just don’t happen that way.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
Posted in Automotive | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Art of Storytelling


It’s hard to believe that a sleepy little town like Jonesborough could come alive the way it does once a year. But come alive it does with so many people that you can’t imagine where they all come from or why they are interested in something as simple as storytelling.

Often we trek to East Tennessee to the tiny town of Jonesborough. It is the oldest city in Tennessee, but is better known as the storytelling capitol of the world and the home of the International Storytelling Festival.

Many in the crowd are seniors who remember the days when rocking on the front porch or sitting around the pot-bellied stove, telling stories and listening to those told by others was splendid entertainment. The ability to spin a good yarn was a highly regarded asset and good stories might be passed from generation to generation.

Stories may be true or embellished with the imagination of the teller to make a good story even better. Sometimes it is difficult to tell the truth from the fiction. In fact, a good liar with an obvious exaggeration might be considered even better than the truth and telling tall tales is a skill of its own.

At the storytelling festival there is a little bit of everything. Some folks specialize in traditional folk stories passed down for so long that no one really remembers where they came from. Folk tales may be told while wearing colorful native costumes and the oral history helps to keep heritage alive.

Most visitors have favorite tellers. After all, it is not only the story that is important, but the delivery and the way that a particular story is told. Jonesborough began in the tradition of the great southern humorist, Jerry Clower, who could spellbind an audience with his funny stories of the rural South.

Modern favorites seem to be tellers such as Donald Davis, a teacher whose story of riding a mule to the bottom of the Grand Canyon puts you right in the saddle and on the edge looking down hundreds of feet from a mule so bored that he might go to sleep at any moment and walk off the edge.

Bil Lepp is another audience pleaser who uses redneck humor. He came from the tradition of liar’s contests and his stories carry you right along with him painting a house on stilts, being chased by gophers and catching on fire from a bonfire. The situation gradually becomes funnier and more absurd until you realize he is skillfully pulling your leg.

Another beloved teller was 90-year-old Katherine Windham, whose sharp wit could still charm an audience with true tales from her life as a southern journalist. Her moving stories of a segregated south brought smiles and tears. One moving story was about a barefoot child who never forgot the gift of a pair of shoes and as an adult law enforcement officer still visited the benefactor to thank her.

Stories are told by many different voices. Great stories make you laugh or cry, sometimes both in the same story. Music is sparse and mainly consists of folk music with a guitar or autoharp. The real music is not from instruments, but the music of the human voice and the harmony of souls sharing a common listening experience.

Every year when the leaves begin to change color in the fall and the hills beckon, folks return to sit shoulder to shoulder with others in the great musty tents, to hear the stories, to share the laughter and emotion.

We return to a place where stories come alive, past becomes present, and legends become art in the tiny town of Jonesborough, tucked away between hills in the autumn splendor of Tennessee.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss
Posted in Entertainment, Humor, Southern Humor, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

My Cat Can Fly

Less you be confused, my cat cannot fly like a bird. Misty flies more like Superman, minus the cape, that is, leaping tall buildings in a single bound. All cats can jump, of course, but Misty seems to have extraordinary abilities in this particular feline skill.

Misty has always preferred high places. As a kitten, she climbed to the top of the living room curtains, where she paced back and forth with the cat-footed precision of a tightrope walker, surveying the mortal world below.

As she became older and stronger, she simply bounded in a long graceful leap from the back of a chair to the top of the curtains. She then took her afternoon power nap on the top of a nearby hutch that could be reached in an easy jump from the curtains.

Misty had an instinctive love for the top of the world. She looked at even taller places with longing eyes, wondering how she could surmount the distances.

Her next conquest was the kitchen china cabinet. It was simply a matter of leaping from the table, a place she was not allowed to be. But risking human wrath was of little consequence when aiming for a lofty goal. The china cabinet quickly became a new favorite nesting spot for her afternoon nap. But even in the lap of contentment she became restless and longed for taller mountains to climb.

The living room had an entertainment center so tall it was nearly to the ceiling. Misty surveyed it with squinted yellow eyes, but the leap was too far, the risk of embarrassment too great. She could see the Promised Land, but could not enter in.

Then one day, she discovered that by bouncing from a low wall by the doorway, she could, maybe, accelerate herself to the top of the coveted piece of furniture. It was a miraculous feat, a leap that required gliding over 6 feet in the air. Unafraid, she sailed to the top of the entertainment center, landing with sure-footed precision.

Once she found that she could do it, there was no stopping her. She now soared to the top of the china hutch from newly found, and more challenging, jump-off spots. If a human happened to walk by when she was ready to leap, she would jump right over the top of their surprised head.

From the entertainment center, she flew to the drapery rod. From there she soared to the hutch, and finally to the one remaining place where she had not yet set foot, a twin hutch on the other side of the fireplace. Mortals could scarcely believe their eyes the day they saw her defy gravity to leap over the entire width of the fireplace and land on new terrain.

The top of the refrigerator and the top of kitchen cabinets were minor conquests for a cat that could fly. She hardly bothered with them at all, preferring more challenging places where she could soar from furniture top to furniture top, aloof and safe, high above the earthbound world of mere humans.

Misty spent her days lounging on her back, sometimes precariously close to the edge of disaster, while daydreaming of rooftops, hot air balloons, para-sailing and rocket ships to outer space. If NASSA accepted cats, it’s certain she would apply to be an astrocat.

Being a young and daring cat, Misty possesses the strength and prowess that enabled these miraculous leaps, along with the fearless spirit of youth that has not experienced failure. She has not yet learned what is impossible and, therefore, should not be attempted.

Downward plunges when she jumps from top of her lofty perches are merely a fast lane to the floor. She defies gravity as she glides through the air with a graceful feline confidence that eludes earthbound creatures who can only watch in awe.

My cat can fly.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss
Posted in Creatures, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Nature’s Bounty


“Can I have any apples off your tree that you are not going to use?” asked the neighbor.

“Sure, you can have them all.”

I have an old apple tree in my yard. When I planted it, I didn’t know about spraying, pruning, and thinning. I thought apples grew large and red, with wax on them like the ones in the supermarket.

Through the years, the apple tree has become somewhat of an annoyance. The apples fall on the ground and draw flies. Every year I have to rake up the mess. I long ago gave up trying to take care of the tree. But the apple tree doesn’t know this and it just keeps blooming and having fruit year after year.

The neighbor was picking apples to make applesauce for military families who are on a small budget. Apparently, apples in the back yard are still a novelty to some people.

She had neighborhood kids all organized to help pick. One day I drove up in the driveway and they were there with ladders and bags swarming all over the tree. Oh, goody, they will pick them all and I won’t have to rake. The apples are small, but otherwise in pretty good condition considering they had no spray, fertilizer, or anything else.

When I planted the apple tree, it seemed like such a good idea: Apples, jelly, cobblers, pie, fried apples, apple sauce, apple cider. In my younger and more ambitious days, I picked apples, made apple jelly and even froze apples for later. Nowadays, apples pies and cobblers are too fattening. I’m trying to diet.

So the apples just hang on the tree until they fall. Last week I raked up about five trash bags full that had fallen and spoiled. It was about 90 degrees that day. I thought I would die of heat exhaustion before I finished.

The kids picked about a 100 pounds when they were here, but there were still a lot of apples left. They are still falling, falling, like red hail. They keep on falling, an avalanche of red balls, too much of a good thing.

As it turned out, the neighbor had more apples than she could use too. That figures. You can only make so much applesauce, and coffeecake. The leftovers ended up going to the local food bank.

Then they got the idea of picking more for the food bank. I applauded their efforts and ambition and then hid behind the kitchen door.

Bushels more have fallen on the ground since I raked. I will have to go out there this weekend and see what I can do about them.

“Does anyone want apples? They are yours if you pick them.”

That’s what I figured. I like the ones from the supermarket better too.

Actually, I planted four trees. Thank goodness, only one thrived. If all had lived and done as well as the one that is left, I’d be up to my chin in apples instead of up to my knees.

I hope the kids come back soon to pick the pick the rest, or I may have to declare a state of apple emergency. Nature’s bounty is about to overwhelm me.

In the meantime, my daughter was going to the store for groceries. “Mom, do you need anything?”

“Just milk and orange juice.”

“No apples?”

“Don’t say that word outloud to me.”

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss
Posted in Food, Humor, Plants/Gardening | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

The Heaven Eye

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I didn’t like it. I ordered it over the internet and when it finally came, I didn’t like it. I had found necklaces with a pendant called a “Heaven Eye.” They were Oriental and took their unusual name from the design that looks somewhat like an actual eye.

“A Heaven Eye amulet will keep away the Evil Eye and bring you good luck,” said the description. I could always use more luck, but mostly I liked the unusual exotic design.

I had decided on a blue-grey traditional design when I spotted one made of rustic looking clay with the eye design scratched into the surface instead of being molded. It was only a bead and not a necklace, but I thought I could put it on jute string myself. So, I bid a whole 99 cents.

Naturally, I won the auction. Who else would bid on such a strange item? It was a bargain if you didn’t consider the $7 shipping charge from China. I waited weeks until it finally arrived and now that it’s here, I don’t like it.

Sellers will usually return the selling price of an item, but not the shipping charge. It wasn’t worth paying postage to return a 99 cent item to China, so I figured I was out of luck — what the Heaven Eye was supposed to bring me in the first place —  remember?

When I looked at the picture again I could see the imperfections in the design. I had not looked closely enough and had seen what I wanted to see instead of what was there.

I decided to write the seller and tell him I was disappointed. I tried to be as polite and businesslike as possible, saying there were numerous imperfections and a chip that could not be seen in the picture.

Then I received a reply email. He was sorry I was disappointed and was selling the items cheaply to let people know about the Tibetan Buddha culture. It was more for friendship than business, but he would return my monies.

Oh, no, why does he have to be so nice? I could picture a monk with a shaved head sitting cross-legged, chanting and selling a few Heaven Eyes on eBay to earn money for the poor.

Why are Oriental people always so polite?

What a jerk I am, I thought.

“I will keep the pendant as a gesture of friendship and not worry about the small flaws. Friendship and good luck are more important than money,” I typed back.

The front side looked pretty good and might be able to cover the chip with the knot in the string, so I could use it even if it was less than perfect.

I was feeling much better when another email popped up. “If you want buy two more items, I will combine shipping and give you $8 discount.”

That seemed like a very good deal until I thought about it. I looked at the items and they were much nicer than the one I had ordered, but I really didn’t need three Heaven Eyes. I had one too many already.

Besides, he was beginning to sound more like a merchant than a monk.

When you buy something you don’t need because it is on sale, are you really saving money? I decided to pass on the offer, but I didn’t have the courage to email him back. I didn’t want to seem rude after he had had been so polite.

I am still waiting for the pendant to start bringing me luck. I wonder if you have to wear it or if it can bring luck from the dresser drawer?

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Shopping | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

The Great Drapery Hanging

jez-timms-iotaVuS6laQ-unsplashI’ve had a drapery hanging ordeal at my house this week. You see, I have these wonderful draperies that are loosely woven. They have a separate lining that can be drawn to let the light though in day or can be closed at night for privacy. They were made for another house that I lived in and when I moved, I kept them.

Of course, draperies made for one house never work in another, so they have been stored in my attic for years, waiting for the day when I would take down the cheap tiebacks in the living room and hang them. Though the curtains on the windows were cheap, they had one great advantage — they were already hung.

Eventually, I redecorated the living room and decided to wash the tiebacks. Sun and age had done their job, and what came out of the washing machine was a bunch of strings. When something is that old, it is best just to leave it alone, I found.

But wait, I have other drapes! They were in their plastic wrap, covered with dust in the attic. Though old, they had not been subjected to wear and were almost like new. Since couldn’t find a rod long enough to hang them, I ordered one off the net, and finally did the detested task of putting them up.

End of story? Hardly.

My new kitten took an instant liking to the drapes — or should I say to climbing them with little claws digging. After saving the drapes all these years, now they were being destroyed by a kitten.

No one had much advice other than to take the drapes down until she was older. Take them down? I had just put them up. The idea was to not buy more cheap drapes, and I could not leave my windows bare with all the world looking in.

Meanwhile, the kitten learned to climb to the top of the drapes and sat on the rod, looking down at the me. I must admit it would have been amusing if we were not talking about my best drapes.

As soon as the cat was fully grown and much stronger, she simply by-passed the climbing part and leapt from the back of the chair to the top of the curtain rod. Old habits are hard to break, and cats apparently can walk a tightrope — or a curtain rod.

The size and weight of the animal eventually took their toll, and the curtain rod broke. The beautiful draperies hung sadly, dragging the floor and refusing to open. Each time the cat decided to play king of the world, things got worse.

Nothing to do but buy a new rod and rehang them.

Every time I hang curtain rods, I think of the classic story by Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych. You probably read it in college lit. Ilych died a prolonged and painful death during which people became alienated to his suffering and eventual death. It’s a terrible story, but just as terrible is that the injury that led to his fatal condition was a fall while hanging draperies.

So here I am jumping from lamp table to chair hanging draperies and hoping I don’t end up like Ivan Ilych.

As it turned out, the rod was not broken — naturally — since I had already bought a new one. The rod had just somehow slipped out at a joint. I could have fixed it months ago instead of putting up with sagging drapes due to my fear of hanging curtain rods.

I’m not sure who to blame this particular ordeal on, myself, the cat, or Leo Tolstoy.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss


Posted in Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Progress Comes to Town


My one-horse hometown finally got too big for its britches and started to grow. They’ve been working on the new shopping center over by the Interstate for some time. I didn’t really pay much attention. After all, there seems to be a bulldozer digging dirt somewhere every place you look these days.

Then it opened.

New stores, a discount store, a department store, all kinds of little shops. It’s like another whole city over there, only two miles away. Other people seem to be like me, though. They can’t get used to the idea of shopping somewhere else. You still can’t find a place to park at Walmart while the aisles at the new Target are like a bowling alley.

I guess we will all adjust sooner or later.

I went to Target the other day. It was my daughter’s birthday and I wanted to get a gift card. I looked around a little bit, but it was like any other new store. I couldn’t find stuff, didn’t know where to look, and had to ask someone. It was annoying.

Some people are freaking out about it. “It’s killing the old downtown,” they say. “Need to support our local merchants,” yadda, yadda. I’m not against people making a living, but, face it, this town has been dead for a long time. It just didn’t have enough sense to shut its eyes. Maybe a few new stores will rattle the cage and wake up the economy.

Yesterday my printer cartridge ran out of ink. “Oh, rats! Have to go all the way to Staples in Murfreesboro to get a new one.” Then I remembered. We have a Staples store here now! So, I hopped in my shoes and took off for the new shopping center. I could park right by the door. The crowds haven’t found it yet.”

I just hope they have what I need, I thought. I didn’t need to worry. All the shelves were fully stocked. Wonder if they could have that jump drive like I’ve been looking for? I need some printer paper, and some photo paper, and well, you get the picture. By the time I got out of there the printer cartridge cost me $200 with all the extras. This new shopping center may be a little bit too handy.

“I love your store!” I told the checker at the cash register. “You have everything that everyone else is sold out of!”

She looked a bit surprised, but soon came to her senses. “Do you have our Rewards Card?” Ah, yes, the impersonal, “personal touch” of these big box stores. She found my card on the computer faster than I could find it in my wallet.

Yeah, it’s going to take me a while. I’m just not used to the Big City being in my front yard. It’s always been down the road a bit, just inconvenient enough to keep me at home.

History has a place and sometimes it can be revitalized. There are examples, usually where there is high-density population and little place for growth — or a lot of tourists. But I think we are stuck with the inevitable. People are going where they can shop conveniently, find what they need, and most of all where there is parking.

Me too.

Now if I can just figure out how to get in and out of the danged place without turning at the wrong light, on the wrong road, or the one that doesn’t go anywhere.
At least I knew where I was in the old town, even though I might have to circle that stupid roundabout three times before I could get out of it.

The bull dozers are still digging and more stores are going up all the time. You can’t stop progress, they say. Newer is better. Asphalt will surely inherit the earth.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss
Posted in Environment, Humor, Shopping | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Learning to Drive

chevyAt the age of sixteen one of the most important things in life was learning to drive. My early driving experience was in an old 50’s Chevrolet that belonged to my family. It was black and looked a lot like a bug – not the Volkswagen Beetle variety, but more like a large black roach.

What it lacked in appearance, however, it made up for just by being a set of wheels.

The old Chevy had a clutch and standard transmission. The clutch pedal was next to the brake and every time you stopped, you had to step on the clutch to disengage the transmission or the motor would die. You shifted gears a lot with a standard transmission, from low, to second, to high with each stop, while slowly letting out the clutch after each shift and giving the motor gas. I did a lot of jerking and killing the motor until I learn how to make it all work together.

Daddy didn’t much want to let me borrow the car keys, but he didn’t want to say no either, so he devised various ways to discourage me. I had to be able to back it out of the driveway myself if I wanted to drive the car. That seems easy enough until you find out that the driveway was two narrow strips of concrete about a foot wide and only about 6 inches from the side of the house. I knew that if I scrapped the house and wrecked the car that was the end of my driving forever.

Daddy never had the motivation or patience to teach me to drive. I received my driver’s license in summer school. My friend Kathy and I got up at 6 AM and stood in line at the front door of the high school to register for the drivers’ education class. Demand exceeded availability.

In the class a group of four of us were in the car at the same time, Pat, Bugsy, Kathy and me. If Daddy thought I was an irresponsible driver, he should have seen Bugsy. We sat in the back seat and covered our eyes when Bugsy took the wheel. Our instructor, Mr. Dumont, had a lot of patience, fortunately, and an emergency brake on his side of the car.

It was Mr. Dumont who suggested that we would earn trust and use of the car keys easier if we would show interest in the family car at times other than when we wanted to use it, such as, by offering to wash it. However, Daddy became wise to that and soon wanted me to wash it first before I could use it to go anywhere. The old Chevy took me to many a school function and football game in high school and was the cleanest roach in town.

Being the piece of junk that it was, the car had a few unusual mechanical problems. It would occasionally lock up and refuse to go. I had to learn to wiggle the part under the hood that would make it unlock. Eventually, Daddy ingeniously wired the choke to the offending part so it could be wiggled without even getting out of the car.

Driving in those days was much more of a challenge than it is now with automatic transmissions and complex computers that prevent imaginative do-it-yourself fixes. Cars were a very big part of life in the time of drive-in restaurants, drive-in movies, family road trips, and cruising.

Somehow I drove through my teens without accident or incident and earned my access to wheels. Becoming independent and being able to go places on my own was part of becoming an adult and learning responsibility.

And as an added bonus, driving just about anything else in the world seemed easy after learning to drive in the old 50’s Chevrolet.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss
Posted in Automotive, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Water, Water Everywhere

With Hurricane Dorian bearing down on the East Coast and perhaps staying out to sea instead of hitting land, I was reminded of this experience a few years ago. Bad as it was, this current storm could be worse — much worse.

Posted in Humor, Weather | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

Fantasy Football & the Hot Tub


It’s a terrible thing when you cannot enjoy the luxury of a weekend at a state park resort, but this is the position in which I found myself. Normally, a weekend away from home is an adventure to look forward to, but on this particular weekend my honey’s fantasy football league was having a party at the resort.

To say that I don’t like football is to understate the matter. To state that I HATE football is closer to the truth, but still not quite passionate enough to express the true depth of my feelings. Of course, there was this hot tub at the resort where I could soak away my displeasure and sooth my arthritic bones in liquid warmth. So, yes, I would make the ultimate sacrifice and go to this football party, I thought, as the hot tub called my name.

We arrived and I dutifully went to the testosterone saturated party room. There was food — so I ate. They passed out trophies — so I took pictures. So far, so good. Then it was time for the customary playing of poker and watching of football on TV.

The hot tub called my name even louder than before. “Is it okay if I leave now?” I asked my honey.

I slipped away to change into my bathing suit. Unfortunately, the only bathing suit I had was at least ten years old. I didn’t bother to try it on before I came as I had to wear it; I didn’t have another one. I managed to squeeze into the bathing suit, but my tummy wouldn’t suck in enough to keep my flab from showing. Oh, well, it’s dark outside. Maybe no one will see. I must remember to go shopping for a swimsuit with one of those little skirts, the kind that old ladies wear.

As I arrived at the pool, I realized that my hopes for privacy were lost. Sitting on the side of the hot tub were three plump ladies in shorts with their feet soaking in the tub. I nearly turned around and went back, but the hot tub was screaming my name and my arthritis was throbbing.

I opened the pool door. “How’s the water, ladies?” They didn’t seem any more thrilled at my interruption than I was at their presence. I wondered if they were looking at my flab. However, they were all so overweight that none of them could possibly wear a bathing suit, even if they sucked in and held their breath forever.

The hot water felt wonderful as I submerged in it up to my neck. “This is great for my arthritis!” I didn’t know that I was in the hot tub with three witches until they lit up their cigarettes. They had to be witches! Who in their right mind would smoke in a hot tub except a witch?

“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.” The water bubbled and the steam rose into the cool night air. The witches cackled and continued their conversation, ignoring my presence. I tried to relax, but the water seemed to become hotter and hotter and the smoke thicker.

“Fire burn, and caldron bubble.” Finally, I knew I had to get out or pass out. I decided to call it a night. “You ladies have a nice evening,” I said as I made my exit, stage left.

“How was the hot tub?” my honey asked me later.

“Oh, it was a bit crowed, so I didn’t stay long.” I didn’t mention my narrow escape from the witches’ brew. My honey is a realist and he would have said it was my imagination working overtime.

But, witches are every bit as real as fantasy football teams, and nobody questions their reality.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Sports | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment