Church Potluck Outreach

 

A moratorium was now placed on church potlucks. The last one caused a flash fire when the Barbecue Pit exploded, sending miscellaneous pork bits and ribs, along with Bob’s Secret Ingredient (lots of whiskey) flaming sauce, flying over to Old Miz Guthrie’s tiny old house.

Old Miz Guthrie heard screaming coming her way, and then smelled the barbeque fire on her roof.  “Oh, Lordy, Lordy!  My house ‘s afire!”  As fast as a squirrel on a live wire, she scampered out the door, wringing her hands while the fire department extinguished the barbecue flickers of flame.

No damage done, Old Miz Guthrie thanked everyone, shushing them away, and hurried back inside.  Looking around at her immaculate, nicely decorated home, she raced down the steps to her basement, which was packed with fire-proof chests of gold coins, jewelry (oh, how she love nice jewelry), and packs of one-hundred bills. 

Unbeknownst to the community, Old Miz Guthrie was quite a spendthrift made possible by her late husband’s last bank robbery in 1955 in Chicago.  I better get outta this town.

The next day her brother Raffert showed up at night with a big van and they moved everything from the basement during the big school dance.  Just before she closed the front door, Old Miz Guthrie turned the cooker on high, with bright flames crawling to a dishtowel.

The town mourned for her. Damned BBQ sauce.

This is a Wed. Words from 2015, and it was different.  I hope you can enjoy. It was created by Delores, who has given up computers, River has taken up the slack, but might like to have someone else to share this. Are that person??

The Last Campout

Trees? Please?

A wall of old camping gear stares at me every time I do laundry.  Covered with dust, it reminds me of our very last camp out--a sad and memorable event.

Our church planned a big camp out, starting Friday night to Sunday morning, with a big potluck on Saturday evening.  One of the church ladies had a brochure on a nearby camp site, which showed towering trees, people playing volley ball, kids swimming, etc.  It looked marvelous.

Talk about untruth-in-advertising.  After checking in, we went to our assigned spot.  Where were the trees?  Gone, all gone.  In their places stood spindly plantings.  The pool? Drained for repairs.  The volley ball court? About ¼ mile, at the far stretch of camp.

The saddest thing of all was the sewage back-up in the only shower and toilet facilities. Four toilets, each backed up, with toilet paper pieces covering the floor. Fortunately the campgrounds were spotted with Spanky’s Porta-Potties, which were nearly full.

source

Saturday night was about 90° and at dusk, the air started to cool.  We were each assigned food to bring, which for us was salad thankfully.  

The number of entrees was thin, but some cheerful church lady brought a huge cauldron of her special recipe chicken stew.  “You’ll just love this!” she exclaimed as she ladled it out. My husband accepted his portion, while I passed it by, and headed to the tray of cold cuts.

Most of the campers settled into their tents, while others stayed up around the campfire, singing praise hymns, without ceasing.

Around 10 pm, my husband leaped up and ran out; I could hear him retching in the brush.  There were so many others doing the same. He returned to the tent, saying “We’re leaving. Now.”  

With Spanky’s Porta-Potties by now full to the brim, there were no other viable options where to vomit or allow one to relieve one’s bowels.

Serving the needs of the public

 We gathered or grabbed valuables, leaving the tent standing, and raced to our home, about thirty miles away. It was a rough night.

My husband returned early the next morning to pack up the tent and sleeping bags.  He said many others had done to same.

Since then, we have converted from roughing it to staying in a motel.  Things change; the memories remain.

Wednesday Words: Old Miz Guthrie and the Fire

Arsonist squirrel

A moratorium was now placed on church potlucks. The last one caused a flash fire when the Barbeque Pit exploded, sending miscellaneous pork bits and ribs, along with Bob’s Secret Ingredient (lots of whiskey) flaming sauce, flying over to Old Miz Guthrie’s tiny old house.

Old Miz Guthrie heard screaming coming her way, and then smelled the barbeque fire on her roof.  “Oh, Lordy, Lordy!  My house ‘s afire!”  As fast as a squirrel on a live wire, she scampered out the door, wringing her hands while the fire department extinguished the barbeque flickers of flame.

No damage done, Old Miz Guthrie thanked everyone, shushing them away, and hurried back inside.  Looking around at her immaculate, nicely decorated home, she raced down the steps to her basement, which was packed with fire-proof chests of gold coins, jewelry (oh, how she love nice jewelry), and packs of one-hundred bills. 

Unbeknownst to the community, Old Miz Guthrie was quite a spendthrift made possible by her late husband’s last bank robbery in 1955 in Chicago.  I better get outta this town.

The next day her brother Raffert showed up at night with a big van and they moved everything from the basement during the big school dance.  Just before she closed the front door, Old Miz Guthrie turned the cooker on high, with bright flames crawling to a dishtowel.

The town mourned for her. Damned BBQ sauce.

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Kudos to Delores at Under the Porch Light!  These six underlined words were a challenge for me this time.  Just could not find a common thread to weave through and tie together.
Moratorium? Congratulations, Delores!  You got me.
Ahem.  If you would like to access her site and read other participants, please click on the lonely grapefruit in the sidebar.  And, please, join this challenge!