featured, among other things: Fillet of Possom . . . Prime Rib of Polecat . . . Goat's Liver and Onions . . . Bull Frog Pudding and Turkey Buzzard Pie Ala Mode.
An unsuspecting couple, who had come all the way from Gate City for dinner, read the menu and were halfway down the block when Idgie opened the door and yelled April Fool's at them.
The couple from Gate City then ordered from the regular menu and got some free coconut cream pie.
By the way, my other half let one of his old hunting dogs in the house the other day, and he brought his bone with him, and wouldn't you know it, I tripped on it and broke my toe. Doctor Hadley wrapped it up for me, but I'm having to wear house shoes to work and can't get out and gather news, like I want to. So if you have any news, just bring it on over to me at the post office.
. . . Dot Weems . . .
JANUARY 19, 1986
It was Sunday again. Evelyn and Ed Couch were getting ready to leave for the nursing home. She turned off the coffeepot and wished that she didn't have to go, but Ed was so sensitive where his mother was concerned that she dare not refuse to go and at least say hello to her whiny, demanding mother-in- law. Going out there was like torture to her; she hated the smell of sickness and Lysol and death. It reminded her of her mother, of doctors and hospitals.
Evelyn had been forty when her mother died, and after that, the fear started. Now, when she read the morning paper, she turned immediately to the obituary column, even before she read her horoscope. She was always pleased when the person who had died had been in their seventies or eighties, and she loved it when the dear departed had been over ninety; it made her feel safe somehow. But when she read that they had died in their forties or fifties, it disturbed her all day, especially if, at the end of the obituary, the family had requested that a donation be sent to the cancer society. But what disturbed her most was when the cause of death was not listed. A short illness of what?
Died suddenly of what? What kind of accident?
She wanted all the details in black and white. No guessing. And she loathed it when the family asked that a donation be made to the humane society. What did that mean? Rabies . . . dog bite . . . cat fever?
But lately, it had been mostly donations to the cancer society. She wondered why she had to live in a body that would get old and break down and feel pain. Why couldn't she have been living inside a desk, a big sturdy desk? Or a stove? Or a washing machine? She would much rather have an ordinary repairman, like an electrician or a plumber, than a doctor work on her. While she had been in the throes of labor pains, Dr. Clyde, her obstetrician, had stood there and lied to her face. "Mrs. Couch, you're going to forget these pains as soon as you see that baby of yours. So push a little harder. You won't even remember this, trust me."
WRONG! She remembered every pain, right down the line, and would not have had the second child if Ed had not insisted on trying for a boy. ... Another lie exposed: The second one hurt as much as the first, maybe even more, because this time she knew what to expect. She was mad at Ed the whole nine months, and thank God she had Tommy, because this was it, as far as she was concerned.
Her whole life she'd been afraid of doctors. Then, wary, but now she hated, loathed, and despised them. Ever since that doctor had come swaggering into her mother's hospital room with his chart that day . . .
This little tin God in the polyester suit and the three-pound shoes. So smug, so self-important, with the nurses fluttering around him like geisha girls. He had not even been her mother's doctor; he was only making some other doctor's rounds that morning. Evelyn had been standing there, holding her mother's hand. When he came in, he did not bother to introduce himself. She said, "Hello, Doctor. I'm her daughter, Evelyn Couch," Without taking his eyes off the chart, he said in a loud
An unsuspecting couple, who had come all the way from Gate City for dinner, read the menu and were halfway down the block when Idgie opened the door and yelled April Fool's at them.
The couple from Gate City then ordered from the regular menu and got some free coconut cream pie.
By the way, my other half let one of his old hunting dogs in the house the other day, and he brought his bone with him, and wouldn't you know it, I tripped on it and broke my toe. Doctor Hadley wrapped it up for me, but I'm having to wear house shoes to work and can't get out and gather news, like I want to. So if you have any news, just bring it on over to me at the post office.
. . . Dot Weems . . .
JANUARY 19, 1986
It was Sunday again. Evelyn and Ed Couch were getting ready to leave for the nursing home. She turned off the coffeepot and wished that she didn't have to go, but Ed was so sensitive where his mother was concerned that she dare not refuse to go and at least say hello to her whiny, demanding mother-in- law. Going out there was like torture to her; she hated the smell of sickness and Lysol and death. It reminded her of her mother, of doctors and hospitals.
Evelyn had been forty when her mother died, and after that, the fear started. Now, when she read the morning paper, she turned immediately to the obituary column, even before she read her horoscope. She was always pleased when the person who had died had been in their seventies or eighties, and she loved it when the dear departed had been over ninety; it made her feel safe somehow. But when she read that they had died in their forties or fifties, it disturbed her all day, especially if, at the end of the obituary, the family had requested that a donation be sent to the cancer society. But what disturbed her most was when the cause of death was not listed. A short illness of what?
Died suddenly of what? What kind of accident?
She wanted all the details in black and white. No guessing. And she loathed it when the family asked that a donation be made to the humane society. What did that mean? Rabies . . . dog bite . . . cat fever?
But lately, it had been mostly donations to the cancer society. She wondered why she had to live in a body that would get old and break down and feel pain. Why couldn't she have been living inside a desk, a big sturdy desk? Or a stove? Or a washing machine? She would much rather have an ordinary repairman, like an electrician or a plumber, than a doctor work on her. While she had been in the throes of labor pains, Dr. Clyde, her obstetrician, had stood there and lied to her face. "Mrs. Couch, you're going to forget these pains as soon as you see that baby of yours. So push a little harder. You won't even remember this, trust me."
WRONG! She remembered every pain, right down the line, and would not have had the second child if Ed had not insisted on trying for a boy. ... Another lie exposed: The second one hurt as much as the first, maybe even more, because this time she knew what to expect. She was mad at Ed the whole nine months, and thank God she had Tommy, because this was it, as far as she was concerned.
Her whole life she'd been afraid of doctors. Then, wary, but now she hated, loathed, and despised them. Ever since that doctor had come swaggering into her mother's hospital room with his chart that day . . .
This little tin God in the polyester suit and the three-pound shoes. So smug, so self-important, with the nurses fluttering around him like geisha girls. He had not even been her mother's doctor; he was only making some other doctor's rounds that morning. Evelyn had been standing there, holding her mother's hand. When he came in, he did not bother to introduce himself. She said, "Hello, Doctor. I'm her daughter, Evelyn Couch," Without taking his eyes off the chart, he said in a loud
Similar Books
