This is my fifth time participating in @mariannewest‘s freeWrite prompt for Friday. While the first thing that popped into my head for “church lady” was obviously Enid Strict, I couldn’t think of anything to write around him/her.
I pondered it
obsessively a bit whilst out running errands with hubby yesterday afternoon, but it wasn’t until my head hit the pillow that the idea popped into my brain.
The prompt post for Friday’s was…
…and here’s what my muse dropped into my head as I fell asleep…
Take me to church
My wife is such a god fearing woman that I’ve told her I don’t need to worry about going to church – she does enough of the praying and devoting for the both of us.
‘Course, that didn’t mean squat to her when I told her that’s the reason I was going fishing instead of services this morning. She ’bout tore my head off, but then remembered that for the fifty something years we’d been married, yelling made no never mind to me.
She decided to just go pray for my soul instead. I dropped her off bright and early, promised I’d be back at the house in time to cook us up a nice fish lunch, and told her to text me when the Bellefleurs dropped her off at home. Then, with my fishing pole riding shotgun, I headed towards the creek.
Strangest thing happened though, on the dirt road heading towards the creek. Thought I saw a woman walking along the side of the road, but the shadows kept bouncing around, making it hard to see clear.
Took about two minutes of driving slow, which I had to do anyway because of all the pot holes, before I caught up enough to see it was a woman dressed in her Sunday finest. Thing is though, the finest looked like it was straight out of Little House on the Prairie or something.
I started thinking maybe some civil war recreation was going on in town that I didn’t know about, but that still wouldn’t explain why she was all the way out here by herself.
Of course, not much of anything would explain how she suddenly went from walking to sitting in the passenger seat of my truck, staring me dead in the eyes (yeah, pun intended) and slowly shaking the fishing pole like a giant skinny finger scolding me.
Next thing I recall, I was sitting in the pew next to my wife, and judging by the look on her face, she felt something akin to what I was feeling. We both agree now that fishing on Sundays ain’t such a good idea after all.
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