2017-05-31 / Editorials

Don Lively


Now where did I put it?

I don't remember moving it.

I'm sure that the last time I used my George Foreman grill, when I cooked those last two frozen Bubba Burgers, I cleaned it and put it right back in its normal place, on the marble counter top next to the toaster.

Surely nobody broke into the house and heisted just the grill and nothing else.

Other things seem to have been moved around too.

Very puzzling.

Nobody could have moved the grill except me, since I'm the only one who lives here.

And, another thing.

Where did all those shoes come from?

Dozens of pairs of all kinds.

Dress shoes.

Casual shoes.

Flip flops.

Running shoes.

Running shoes?

Anybody who knows me knows that the only time I run is if I misjudge oncoming traffic when I walk across the street and have to run to avoid injury and mayhem.

All the shoes are way to small for me anyway.

Where'd they come from?

Strange things have been happening around the wooded enclave over the past few days.

The place even smells different.

I woke up a couple of mornings ago and smelled something odd, something totally different from anything I normally smell first thing it the morning.

It smelled like cooking.

Like real food, not Pop Tarts warmed in the toaster, or a can of Beanie Wienies cooked in the microwave.

There were other fragrances wafting through the house too, like fresh flowers or potpourri. Sweet smelling soaps. Lotions.

What on Earth is going on here?

What could be causing all the changes?

It wasn't me.

I live alone.

Oh, wait, that's not true anymore.

My wife is now my full time roommate, y'all!

Nearly a year and a half since our wedding, we have finally sold her house in the great state of South Carolina and she's moved in with me, lock, stock and barrel.

My single family bachelor pad (Me having been the entire family unit actually in residence) has been magically transformed into a cozy little place where an old, uh, a middle aged couple lives.

A place with boy stuff and girl stuff.

A place not near as empty as it was a few days ago.

A place where not one but two hearts now beat.

A home.

Yes, a home.

My little brother Willie and his bride, Miss Debbie came by. They have always occasionally stopped by on the golf cart to check on me and now they check on us. We weren't home so I got a text.

"Your front porch looks like the Beverly Hillbillies are moving in."

Indeed, it does.

The north porch, where I normally spend a few idle hours each week listening to the countryside sounds, is currently covered with taped up boxes, stuffed plastic bags and a few sticks of furniture that we're still pondering locations for.

My rocker is wedged in so tight that rocking is out of the question for the time being.

My yard dog, LooseE, AKA Lucy, has had trouble finding her food bowl among the stacks.

And I think there's a package from L.L. Bean with my new summer hiking britches hidden somewhere in the piles, a not very funny joke the FedEx guy pulled on me.

And, you know what? That's all just fine with me.

I have no doubt that everything on the porch will find its way into the house and with each newly placed item, this home, our home, while it might be more crowded with stuff, will be immeasurably more comfortable and inviting.

By the way, I have asked and offered to help my wife bring the bags and boxes inside and help with the organizing, but, I've been forbidden from touching any of it. She's a thousand times more organized than I am and, I'm certain, she has already mapped out in her mind where everything will go, eventually.

That's okay with me too.

I'm not the least bit territorial about the place.

I learned a long time ago, when it comes to man/woman relationships, what's hers is hers and what's mine is ours.

That's just the way it is, fellows.

Still, I wish I knew what she did with my George Foreman grill.

I mean, our, George Foreman grill.

Of course.

Don Lively is a freelance writer and author of two books of Southern Humor, Howlin' At The Dixie Moon, and, South O' Yonder. He lives in Shell Bluff. Email Don at Livelycolo@aol.com.

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