4 minutes 33 seconds| Many name changes, including Wheels of Gouda and Overture in Lurches. (I have softened on the second of these titles.) This work possesses the drive one expects to find in a lively overture, where themes are sparingly sampled from the source opera. This buckshot-thrown-at-barn-door is as close as I come to paying homage to Mozart and Rossetti.
Time stamp: 9/8/11.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 8| This relates events of the aforementioned Christmas dinner in the same chapter:
The blessing conducted earlier that morning left one form of aromatic sage to linger over another rising from the steaming cornbread dressing. Emily offered the same spiritual service to her aunt, but Blythe was content to keep her ghosts in the old family house, if only to have excuse for complaint.
She was on again about Ernie. “I know your father is getting into my cabinets in the middle of the night. It doesn’t make a lick of sense since that man never expressed any interest in cooking while he was alive and I was waiting on him hand and foot.”
Lana observed, “Mom, you’re tanked up on clorazepate at bedtime. Confederate soldiers could be bivouacked in your kitchen and you would sleep through it.”
Blythe continued unabated, “Ernie’s brought some Mexican with him, too. My neighborhood has got enough Mexicans without your father letting them in through the front door. God only know what your father calls himself doing in the kitchen with this man. The only thing he can fix is the float in the commode tank. He doesn’t know the difference between Miracle Whip and a bottle of Miss Butterworth.”
Clark commented, “If he can still fix a toilet, tell him we’ve got work here. And tell the Mexican we have yard work.”
“I just had this house blessed,” scolded Lana. “We need ghosts like we need a backyard pen of baying bluetick coonhounds eating through buried Comcast cable.”
Blythe, who never ate much, even in good health, was already feeding Deirdre under the table.
“Turkey farts!” giggled Ainsleigh.
The brother-in-law grumbled, “Mom, between that dog’s methane and your oxygen tank, our house will be a powder keg today. I will not undermine the house blessing, or tempt fate, but do my smoking under the carport.”
“This little dog doesn’t have long,” Blythe lamented, justifying her indulgence. “She wheezes all night.”
The daughter proclaimed confidently, “That dyspeptic little snot will outlive you, Momma.”
“Just put her down, and make room for her in the coffin with me,” replied the doting mother, cooing at her little darling.
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