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blessing.
    “Amen,” said Mule, rubbing his hands together.
    “How’s your boy?” asked J.C., who was busy pouring salt on his burger and fries.
    “Great. Couldn’t be better. He’ll be home for Thanksgiving.”
    “He’s not gettin‘ the big head in that fancy school, is he?”
    “Nope. Dooley Barlowe might get a lot of things, but the big head won’t be one of them.”
    “Did you read my story on Rodney hirin‘ a woman?” J.C. was not a pretty sight when he talked with his mouth full.
    “You don’t mean it.”
    “I bloomin‘ well do mean it. She starts the middle of November. A woman in a police uniform.... I can’t see it.”
    “Why not? It’s the law, no pun intended.”
    “Would you want a woman preachin‘ in your pulpit?” asked J.C., spilling coffee on his tie.
    “Depends on the woman.”
    “I can’t see a woman carrying a pistol.”
    “How come you don’t like women?” asked Mule. “I like women.”
    “I told you. They’re in the overhauling business.”
    “Maybe you could use a little overhaulin‘.”
    “I been overhauled, buddyroe. Dropped fifty pounds, quit cigarettes, gave up red meat, and quit readin‘ trashy books. Oh, yeah. I even got shots for smelly feet. Was that good enough? No way. She was outta there the year the Dallas Cowboys defeated the Denver Broncos twenty-seven to ten.”
    “Big year,” said Mule. “The Yankees won the World Series.”
    “Not to mention the Chicago Daily News went belly-up.”
    None of this information gave the rector a clue as to what year they were talking about, and he had no intention of asking.
    “So,” said Mule, “did the shot work, or have you still got smelly feet?”
    Lunch at the Grill, thought Father Tim, was what kept life real. He had to confess, however, that he could hardly wait to get back to the office and finish the C. S. Lewis essay entitled “Thought, Imagination, Language.”

    Cynthia gave him a hug as he came in the back door. “We’ve been invited to Miss Rose’s and Uncle Billy’s for banana pudding this evening.”
    “Oh, no! Please, no!”
    “Dearest, don’t be stuffy.”
    “Stuffy? Miss Rose has been hospitalized with ptomaine poisoning twice—and nearly sent a Presbyterian parishioner to her reward. You’re the only person in town who’d put your feet under her table.”
    “So, pray for protection and let’s go,” she said, looking eager.
    It didn’t take much to delight Cynthia Kavanagh. No, indeed, it hardly took anything at all. What’s more, she loved flying in the face of mortal danger.
    “Besides, they’ve invited us for banana pudding practically since the day I moved here, so we can’t disappoint them.”
    “Of course not.”
    “Next Wednesday,” she said, “Miss Sadie and Louella are having us up for supper.”
    “Right.”
    “Fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”
    “We’ll be there.”
    “And homemade coconut cake!”
    “I’ve made a reservation in the emergency room,” he declared, sitting down at the kitchen table.
    “Don’t worry, I’ll watch you every minute. You mustn’t have the gravy or the cake, and only the tiniest portion of potatoes, they’ll be loaded with butter and cream.”
    He was glad J. C. Hogan wasn’t around to hear this.
    “Then,” she said, adjusting her half-glasses to read from a list, “Ron and Wilma invited us for Friday evening.”
    “Ummm.”
    “Hal and Marge want us for dinner at the farm, the first Sunday of November.”
    “Aha.”
    “And the mayor has asked us for a family barbecue the following Sunday. What do you think?”
    “Book it.”
    She looked faintly worn. “So much social activity! I thought you led a quiet life.”
    “I did,” he said, “until I got married.”
    “Oh.”
    “Everybody wants a look at you.”
    “But they’ve seen me for ages!”
    “Not in your new circumstances.”
    She sighed. “And then there’s Thanksgiving!”
    “And the All-Church Feast, which we must attend, and Dooley and Russell