Marge: When the Sarvice Blooms . . .

iï \ Marge: When the Sarvice Blooms . . . If the Lord lets me live till spring I'm getting out of this place. Put out three washings in one day when the veins in my legs are big as hen eggs and me suffering death with my gall bladder. Borrowed Ethel's hame-legged ironing board that a body's got to timber up like a piece of bad top to press out these old rags. I've lugged in three buckets of that old bone coal this morning-dug it out of the snow, and the grate won't draw a lick without a blow george on it. We burnt up most of the back room for winter wood last year and Homer's talking about sawing a prop from under the house; good seasoned hickory'11 burn like gasoline. They've got good jobs in Cincinnati and Detroit where a person can wear decent clothes and meet a few people. I'm going soon's the first wren-bird builds her nest in that old Democrat gourd on the well box. Taking my snot-nosed youngins and let that logger-headed heathen have his coon dogs and that old trap of a Ford truck that ain't even licensed and got a pork and bean can gas cap. See who washes the bugdust outen his work britches and warms his bath water for that three-day-a-week job shoveling rib, see who picks the burrs off of his hunting clothes and cooks his beans with a hunk of salt bacon the way he likes it . . . God, that reminds me! It's three o'clock nearly and I ain't even made cornbread, almost three and me out of lard. Arthur, Raymond! Get off of that screen door. Knock the cat off the table and run over to Ethel's and borrow a smidgin of grease before your daddy gets home. If they'd meant for that thing to be rid, they'd a' put a saddle on it. See if Ethel can spare a can of cream till Friday. Shore as the world I'm leaving Dock Bill Branch soon's the sarvice blooms on the rock cliffs. -Gayle Compton W -^ 21 ...