George and Rita Scarborough
I'm not sure what shelf you might put this one on, but it's definitely not a love story. It turns out all wrong for a love story. Love stories leave you feeling that what you're missing inside still has a residence in there someplace-a tidy room with open windows and sunshine, crisp sheets on the bed, pictures of ripe fruit on the wall. Love stories make you hold your breath near the end. And if tears come to your eyes, you're thankful to have them. Don't expect any of that from this story. Expect disappointment.
You'll find no throbbing hearts or other parts here, no reconciliation. If you think you're going to witness a beautiful young woman who discovers a long-lost love letter from her once-betrothed who died in the war, forget it. Just in case you were hoping to read about some old codger whose estranged daughter returns after ten years with a crinkled black-and-white and a cheap cassette of the two of them singing Jesus Loves Me when the girl was three, prepare yourself to writhe and wretch when he's done with his lemonade. You've been warned.
Just so you'll know, I'm beginning with about the fourth or fifth tender moment in a conversation that started earlier in the day, a conversation that itself was about something else. This part starts with me and my wife in my pickup, traveling at 55 miles an hour, on our way to the church. It starts, as you might expect, with my wife.
"If I could crank that chain saw, I'd feed you to the hogs."