It's been a while since anyone dared write on this blog. I wonder what they are afraid of; do folks in this town think anyone gives a rat's nest about what little tidbits we offer here? Well, let me tell you, Tillie Tidwell is not afraid to let folks in Harts Corner, or beyond, read what I am about to say. I'll just give it a lick or two, for or against the people in this flyspeck town, and let the chips fall where they may.
Now don't get me wrong. I sure don't know where I'd live if it weren't here. It's not like I have a fortune stashed away somewhere. With my little country band, I do okay but I certainly don't make enough on it or my other "investment" to live the good life. But I have to admit I sure wished that wasn't the case.
Once, long ago when I was younger and married to Rene Benoit, that good lookin', cheatin' snake in the grass who up and died on me before I could get him to change his will to my benefit instead of his smart-ass, debutant brat daughter--anyway, he was one of the New Orlean's Benoits and we actually went to Paris on our honeymoon. That was the most excitin' place I've ever seen--even his snotty cousins couldn't spoil it for me. I never wanted to leave but Rene assured me we would return each year.
He reminded me his large shrimp fleet and processing plant could not run without him for any length of time. What I later found out was what he really meant was that he couldn't stay away from the rich-bitch hussy mistress he had tucked away in his summer house/farm across Lake Ponchartrain from New Orleans--not too far from the small airport where he landed the company plane when he wanted a little alone time with his sweetie--or as he put it, "checking the books on family holdings."
That's in the long-ago past now. I've been tryin' to keep a body alive and well since my loss of Rene. He was my one and only true love; two husbands since then could never take his place. Since none of my choices had two nickels to rub together, I have been scratchin' in all kinds of barnyards, and some fancy gardens, ever since. It's not a sin to be poor but it's not likeable either. When I found out some of the good old boys of Harts Corner were involved in a lucrative little adventure, I demanded to be let in. Lookin' back on it now, it's a wonder I didn't get my head blowed plumb off.
I never have cared for Mary Margaret Butler. She and her mama waltzed in here and sniveled their way into Lutie Mae Lucas' life and inheritance. She has it too good, not that I'd ever let her know that I actually admire what she has managed to do with the Blue Moon Cafe, mind you. Truthfully, there's too much bending over a hot stove for my likin'. But she has a steady income, loyal customers and, in spite of not having any friends as she grew up, MM has just about everyone in town smilin' at her. Well, not Preston Connors or Dan Wheeler, but they are the exception.
Even the Judge seems to be her champion. Look what he did to Dan regarding his precious daughter, Bethy Rose. I know, I know, I'm not supposed to tell the readers what goes on between the covers of the book MM wrote and, if I tried it here, some Blogger.com snoop would do a WW II censure thing and black out what I divulge. And the Woman's Lib group would probably come after me if I happened to mention that she's sharing the bed covers with that handsome sheriff, too.
Darn that Mary Margaret. She always get the breaks. And little ole me is still left to fend for herself.
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