Bacon Scrapins – “Oh my! Oh my! Oh my!””
© by Barry S. Wolfe
Bacon Scrapins are the little bits of meat left in the greasy fry pan. They’re tasty, but the nutrition needs searching for. This tale is a bacon scrapin.
My wife and I usually share chores fairly. In practice, that means that I do my half, and then she comes along, fixes my part, and does her 90%.
Christmas is a big deal for my wife. It’s why we don’t leave for Florida until after the big day, spent with a grandson. The month before is the time for preparing the Christmas cards to send out. We still send cards, very little of that email meme stuff.
Marilyn pulls out her saved pile of received cards from last year, checks it against some mental list of ‘should send to’ and then revises last year’s list accordingly with a couple of drops and a couple of add-ons. I then enter the data onto the address label program, formatted for 2-column printing, and then run them off onto adhesive label paper.
She looks at each card from last year, reads again whatever was sent, and then personalizes this year’s outgoing card. Each card goes into the envelope, she sticks the label on it and puts them all into a pile.
We live in a nine-stop-sign-sized community in the country, so we have to drive 10 minutes into town for services like the post office. I pulled up in front along the snow-banked curb, behind another SUV, and waited while she went in the get stamps and put the cards in the mail.
Five cards to the States and 29 locals take a long time to sort and stick. My part of this job is waiting patiently at the curb outside, glancing every once in a while at the front door to see if she’s coming or not. The rest of the time I practice my mental flat-line. Nothing in, nothing out. A relaxing stupor, unless something in my line of vision changes.
The passenger door handle lifted and the side door opened. I had missed it. I didn’t see her coming out. Her head was above the roof level but I could see a familiar purse strap looped over an arm of the coat. But the coat was different. A white-haired head peeked in and – it wasn’t my wife. I said, “Where are we off to now?”
She screeched, “Oh my! You aren’t him! There’s a hat on the seat. Oh my, I’m at the wrong car.”
I said, “That’s OK. Did you call for an UBER? I’m him.”
She said, “Oh my! Oh my! Oh my! I’m so sorry!” She looked ahead of us, and there was another SUV, similar colour, different model.
“Oh my! I got the wrong car. I got the wrong car. Have a good day!” She swung the door shut and in a flustered walk went to the car ahead and opened its door. I could see her lips moving and her arms gesturing back at me, obviously explaining to her husband what she had done.
She eventually got in and their car pulled out onto the snowy road. I swear I could still read her lips and hear her, as the car disappeared over the bridge out of sight, saying, “Oh my! Oh my! Oh my!”
Oh my, you’ve got to love Christmastime in small towns!
The Bacon Scrapins characters, locations and scenarios are the fictional product of the author’s imagination – usually.
You may email appropriate comments for the writer to thisiswilmot@gmail.com