In Tuesday's News

The rain returned in the night, its patter against the window a perfect backdrop for sleeping. This morning, puddles of water fill the ditches and the low places in the yard.

After a breakfast of homemade buttermilk biscuits, fried eggs and bacon, and muscadine jelly, I drive through a slow drizzle to the little store down the road and buy the first newspaper we’ve had in two days. (The Man is still back home, and he’s the official paper-boy around here.)

Back at the house, Daddy sits in his recliner and reads the latest news and such, before breaking out the puzzle section and laying it across Mother’s chair. It will be our treat, as always. Before long, his eyes close and he leans back, surrendering to his first nap of the day.

I can hear Mother in the kitchen. Daddy has requested pinto beans for supper and she is rifling through her deep and wide pantry to see what’s what. Believe me, there’s a lot going on in that pantry of hers. It’s a cross between a treasure hunt and a game of hide-and-seek every single time.

I’ve said it before, and I may say it often, so bear with me, but life moves slower here, with no TV, no Internet. I’m not complaining. I could be out in Cloud Nine watching any of my DIRECTV channels, just as if I were home. (Yes, Cloud Nine has been parked on the property since Thanksgiving; where else is a 75-pound bull terrier supposed to hang out?) But, truth be told, I’m not a big television watcher, even at home, and almost never in daytime hours. I don’t miss that part of my life at all, although I think Daddy would enjoy certain aspects of a television—one being how they can fill time, something he has plenty of these days.

The Christmas tree is still up, at Daddy’s request, but he finally decided last night that I could go ahead and put it away. I’m in no hurry.

Mother calls to me. She has found the pinto beans and is pouring them in a pot of water. Is there any certain thing I’d like to go with them for supper, other than skirt steak? I pour myself a cup of coffee, while she reheats hers in the microwave. I could roast some potatoes with garlic, I suggest. She nods. It’s a done deal.

In the warmth of the kitchen, we sit quietly and drink steaming coffee from blue and white cups. There will be skirt steak and pinto beans for supper, roasted garlic potatoes, and—who knows?—maybe even a pumpkin pie.

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