A couple of us were sitting in the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse the other day when the sheriff went roaring by with sirens wailing. Turns out he was headed up to a local meeting of dairy farmers where a fellow from the university’s extension office was giving a talk. As I understand it, deputies approached on other roads to make certain none of the persons of interest got away.

They didn’t, not a one of them. The sheriff walked into the meeting room and heard Tom Pasteur talking about giving cows vitamins to keep them strong. Right there, the sheriff had his evidence and arrested Tom and every farmer in the room, including 83 year old Elsie Vernon who still hand-milked five cows every morning.

By the time this was known, a lot more of us were gathered down at the PB Cafe. it was getting on toward suppertime and the sheriff himself stopped in. We starred at him as he walked up to the shelf to get his personal jar of PB. He turned, saw us looking and said, “I take it you’ve heard. Yep. We saw the agenda ahead of time and right there on that piece of paper, it said, ‘Tips for Cows’. Yessirree, Bob, we had them cold. Just a big old room of cow tippers. In the slammer now.”

Agnes suggested that maybe the discussion was about how much a diner should give his cow waitress . . . and the sheriff actually thought about it. Bert voiced the idea that perhaps they had been discussing the new experimental cow feed made from asparagus tips. The sheriff chewed his crunchy foldover and said, “Nah, you folks are pulling my leg . . . You better watch out; one day that leaning cow is going to go over and I’ll be out for you too.”

We watched him walk up the road to stretch his legs after eating and when he came to our leaning cow, he tipped his hat to her. We allowed it wouldn’t be wise to make a citizen’s arrest.

I was going to try and break my tradition of the rummage sale habit; I don’t know why – I guess I thought it was just time. So last night, I did not remind myself that it was rummage sale day in the morning; in fact, I re-enforced the idea that I was not going.

And I got up this morning and did not go. It got close to 8:45 and I still knew I wasn’t going to go; I went at 9 am. They had opened earlier so at least I had that going for me. I was no longer an official linestander who waited for the chosen worker to open the doors.

I sauntered in and passed by the linen table – found a nice linen tablecloth. Yellow checks and it should be good for a summer get together. I spied on the other side of the table a packet of linen plaid summer napkins and went around to get them, nodding at an elderly man who was perched on a chair for sale. “How ya doing,” he asked me and I replied, “OK . . . I think.” He grinned and said, “You think . . .” Then I turned to pick up the napkin packet and right in front of me another hand snatched them.

That hand was not my other hand – but belonged to another lady who was with still another lady. They debated and finally the second lady said, “Well, if you don’t want them, I will buy them.”

RATS!!!!!

So I wandered over to the kitchen table, looking for any retro utensils and did find an old ice bucket from about the “50’s, good for keeping fresh ice cubes near by this summer.

Slowly I turned . . . step by step, I walked over to the row of Methodist sofas and found myself standing in front of a blue loveseat. Next to it was a matching three cushion sleeper sofa. $50 for the set. FIFTY.

There was a reason it was only fifty – some little child had apparently knifed the top of the back. But I am the queen of afghans and thought this would be good for the kids. (I sit on leather in Georgia – and a futon when I’m working a puzzle in the sunroom.) So I said, “I’ll make a $50 donation if you deliver it”  . . . and they agreed. Woo-Hoo.

Got it in and got it set up. Threw an afghan on the back. So Summer comes home and I tell her to go look. She comes back and says, “What?” We look together and she wails that I can’t get rid of her favorite sofa, the one she has known and loved and been sick on since she was three and moved here.

She claims the one I have provided for her now hurts her back, doesn’t allow her to sink deeply and is ugly. This is typical Summer. And, pretty much, typical me. We are both full of complaints about everything. It occurs to me to put the old stuff on the curb . . . and her too. Would I do that?

Quite possibly.

Tomorrow is bag day . . .