by Wayne Scheer
(*Wayne’s been a mule longer than most of our alums. We welcome him home like anyone would a native son.)

He was telling one of his stories.  I’d heard it a thousand times, but this was Christmas and maybe someone in the family had only heard it a hundred times.  Pretending to listen, I hoped maybe this time it would end differently.  I know that’s pretty close to the classic definition of insanity–doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome each time.  Still, I figured if I can’t request a miracle this time of year, when can I?

“She was sitting on the stool next to me at the Happy Trails Saloon.”  He turned my way.  “The place been tored down since before you was born.”

 I nodded.  Silence spread across the dinner table like the wave at a ball game.

“She looked like a real lady what with her pretty hair and all, but she guzzled her beer straight from the bottle.  Preferred it that way, she told the barkeep.  Thought drinking from a glass was putting on airs.”

The family uh-huhed in agreement.

“She just put her sweet lips to the bottle, tilted back her head and chug-a-lugged damn near the whole thing.  When she come up for air, she took a deep breath and let out a belch that sounded like a eighteen-wheeler honking through traffic.” 

The children laughed.  He was on a roll.  No stopping him now. 

“I mean it’s bad enough when men drink like that, but it just seemed wrong for a woman.  Now I ain’t a prude, you know that, but she coulda at least held back for when she really needed to.”

“And I told her.  I said, ‘Honey, you look like a lady, so why don’t you act like one?’”

Here it was.  Like a pitch sailing right down the middle of the plate.  I knew it was coming, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

“You know what she did?  She grabbed me by the back of the head and kissed me so hard, I nearly wet my damn self.  And her tongue.  It found the space where I’m missing a tooth.  Ooh-wee, she sure could kiss!”

Nice touch.  The bit with the tongue was new.  Even the children sat up, waiting for the punch line.

“‘You got any complaints?’” she asked.

“‘None I can think of,’” I said.

And here it comes…

“And that’s how me and your momma met, God rest her soul.”