If there’s one thing I can’t stand it is finger prints in the butter. I’m not talking about people who purposely stick a finger in the butter. I’m talking about what my wife does.
We use a butter dish; not like those people who leave the block of butter in the wrapper. We at least have some semblance of respectability. But then when the butter runs out my wife unwraps another block of butter and picking up the block she plonks it on the butter dish. That’s when the finger prints appear on the side of the block. As if it doesn’t matter.
And then, as sure as eggs, the door handle to the refrigerator will be all sticky with butter because after she plonks the block of butter on the butter dish she puts it in the fridge. Hence butter all over the fridge handle.
I’ve put up with this now for thirty-two years. I said to her, “Look, I’ve put up with this for thirty-two years. Can’t you stop putting fingerprints in the butter?”
She’s as stubborn as an ox, my wife. I’ve started to notice greasy butter on a lot of things apart from the fridge door handle. The knife I use to slice the bread is often greasy, and so are the salt and pepper shakers. Butter grease is growing, and all because she picks up the block of butter and plonks it on the butter dish, and then goes and touches everything.
I like ice cream and I don’t mind a spoon or two of it at the end of the meal. My wife doesn’t like ice cream. Yet I notice the ice cream container is all greasy and the spoon in the ice cream is double greasy. She’s doing the butter thing on purpose. In fact, it’s got so bad that I have to wash my hands after I’ve eaten a quota of ice cream. Enough is enough. And now it’s the honey pot.
It would be politically incorrect, in fact insulting, to say that Louis was as gay as a row of pink tents. But he was; everyone said so. The way he would dress up and get photographed in poses that made it look like he was straight out of an old photography gallery. But he was as alive today as you and me. He was… well… pink tents doesn’t quite capture it.
He would get a new photograph taken about once a month, always in a different costume, always in sepia, always horribly posed. He had them on his fridge in rows (Louis was terribly ordered) under little fridge magnets of various vegetables. There was a turnip magnet when he was dressed as a pirate, and a lettuce magnet when he was a sultan, and so on. There were about twenty photographs altogether. Goodness! He almost needed a bigger fridge!
When Louis died, quite suddenly, his two sisters cleaned up his house. There wasn’t a great deal there; nothing overly personal; just a few household items that they sold to the second-hand store. There was the fridge of course. A used fridge doesn’t fetch much, but a few dollars is a few dollars.
They didn’t know what to do with the photographs. Berwyn said she would keep them and put them in her family album. That was very kind of her, because she disliked the silly photographs immensely.
While putting them in the album, Berwyn noticed something. She’d never noticed it before. Each photograph was dated on the back. What she noticed made Berwyn check the newspapers around each date.