Life in the Shadows

Photo caption: Curly Dowd purchased this half-photo at a garage sale and needs help identifying the lady. He thinks it may be his great aunt. “That’s my grandfather’s chin,” he says.

Herman Yost says he has trained his slohund, Lancaster, to locate ripe raspberries, and intends rent him out by the hour. Note: Seldom seen outside of rural communities, the slohund is a breed of hound developed in the late nineteenth century by Amish farmers in need of an intelligent, sturdy, reliable dog for both hunting and farm work.

Otto Hopp, Angel’s Rest Funeral Home, reports that since the introduction of his Frequent Mourners Club last year, calling hours visitation has grown a whopping 61%. Hopp says the sales increase from the snack machine alone has enabled him to have the hearse detailed. “If this keeps up,” he reports, “I’ll be able to buy new mud flaps with our logo on them for the summer dying season.”

Minister Westminster says that after reviewing the attendance figures for the last quarter, maybe he should start a “Frequent Worshippers Club.”

Nippy Keene reports that girdleberries will be ripe enough to pick by the end of the week.

I have received no news about Curly Dowd’s electronic bra.

Latest news from the school playground: Miss Frida Goblocks has won the 2017 violet-pull champion. Congratulations, Frida.

Ada Sanderling wants to know why Sycamore Shadows has no recycling program. Albert Sharpless, trash collector and model train enthusiast, gives this answer: “I’m not saying folks can’t organize their trash, but I ain’t going to all that extra trouble so people can feel good about themselves. Sort it if you want, organize it, put it in alphabetical order, label it—then I’m taking it to the dump as God intended.”

Someone reported seeing Alberteen Tucker in her nightgown yesterday morning, mailing a letter while eating a boiled egg.

Oak Stubb, editor of the Evening Shade, Sycamore Shadows’ weekly newspaper, wishes to acknowledge a misprint in last Saturday’s edition. Instead of “You will never find a brain in a onion,” it should have read, “You will never find a brain in a union.” Mr. Stubb says he enjoys onions and wishes to thank the gardeners who told him of the mistake.

Bertha Defoe says four people on her block have athlete’s feet and it cannot be a coincidence.

Sammy Blue says that when last week’s thunderstorm rumbled in, Tia Coddler and Parn Bodie, both of whom were walking alone on opposite sides of the creek, took shelter inside the covered bridge. According to Sammy, after the storm had passed, the pair exited holding hands. Folks, if you enjoy the single life, avoid Pond’s Bridge. Something happens to people inside those old timbers.

  Ned Hammer informs the public that he will not open any mail addressed to “Hammerhead.”

John Bleau says the Kishwaukee word for “love” is “wenhabhe” (wĕn-HOB-hā), not “winhobby,” and that if people are going to use it, they should learn how to spell it first.

Nippy Keene wants to know: “When they moved the carousel across the street, who was the idiot that decided we needed a memorial rock showing where it used to be?”

Joe Ballard believes it was his grandfather, George Ballard.

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