You call it crazy, I call it home . . .

I’ve heard that up north, they lock their crazy people in the attic. Ha. Here in the south, we prop ’em up on the sofa and invite the neighbors over for iced tea.

Here, the hot wet heat of an endless summer presses on already fanciful minds. We don’t ask if you have any crazy people in your family–you ask which side they’re on.

I recently spoke with our local Emergency Services chief, who told me he’d responded to an emergency call for a lady of a certain age, and when he’d strapped her on the gurney, he ran back into the house to fetch her medicine from the Frigidaire, and as he opened the door, a skinned raccoon swung from the top shelf, hog-tied and hanging by its feet.

“Why?” I said.

He shook his head. “I didn’t ask, I just moved the coon, grabbed her medicine and met her in the ambulance.”

Now see, only in the south would a skinned raccoon hanging in the fridge not give someone pause for thought.

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About kitfrazier

Award-winning novelist and former big city journalist who bumped into a cowboy and woke up in the wild, wild west.
This entry was posted in Confessions of an Accidental Cowgirl. Bookmark the permalink.

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