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| Potluck dinner in some church, some where. |
A moratorium now outlawed church potlucks in Old Walderren. 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 Ol' Miz Guthrie’s tiny old house.
Ol' 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, Ol' 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 a fireproof chest of jewelry (oh, how she love nice expensive jewelry), and packs of one-hundred bills.
Unbeknownst to the community, Ol' Miz Guthrie was quite a spendthrift made possible by her late husband’s last bank robbery in 1955 in Chicago. I gotta out of this town.
The next day her brother Ralf 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 old gas cooker on high, and tossed a burning dish towel through the door.
The town mourned for her. Damned BBQ sauce.
This is a repost from March 2015, Wednesday Words. Oh, Lordy, they are fun.
