Free God Save the Sweet Potato Queens by Jill Conner Browne

have been her wedding anniversary had she still been married happily coincided with a little girl-trip we were taking to the beach. We persuaded her to get in touch with an old flame of hers who lived in the area we were visiting. He met us all for a drink, and one by one we made ourselves disappear, leaving the two of them alone at the romantic beach bar at sunset. We went off carousing and generally having a delightful time, secure or at least hopeful in the knowledge that our little buddy was having one as well. By and by, we got curious about how delightful a time she might be having, and so we drove to the beach house to see if his car was outside. It was. Not only that, all the lights were out. Yippee! we thought as we drove off. We hadn’t gone far before one of us remembered it was her special day and we hadn’t thought to acknowledge that, so we turned the car around, killed the engine at the beginning of the street, turned off the headlights, and coasted down close to the house. We got out and crept up in the bushes beneath the window of the bedroom we thought they would most likely be occupying and commenced to sing—very loudly—“Happy anniversary to you! Happy anniversary to you!” and so on. Helpless with laughter, we made our way clumsily back to the car. As we were turning around, headlights on now, the beams caught movement at the front door. There stood our little buddy—and let me just say that naked is naked, but somehow it looks a whole lot more so in the headlights of a car—just waving and smiling. As we pulled by, we could hear her hollering, “Thank yew!” We remarked on her politeness and her nakedness, both extreme, but she did seem to be having a most delightful time, working fervently to prove the theory that living well is, indeed, the very best revenge.
    And Your Little Dog, Too!
    One of the Queens, Tammy, had a dog to stir up some trouble for her. YardDog, Tammy’s mutt, once got into her neighbor’s chickens and ate a whole mess of them all by his ownself, not even bothering to bring a single one home for Tammy to cook. The neighbor lady complained real loud to Tammy about it, too. Tammy was just starting in as to how could she be so certain it was YardDog who ate her precious chickens when who should appear grinning at her back door but YardDog himself, covered in feathers. Tammy just apologized and offered to pay for the chickens. Neighbor lady said nope, Tammy had to replace the chickens. Nine o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, just what Tammy feels like doing with her day is shopping for live chickens. Forty of them. YardDog just loves chicken, and any old way you want to serve them is just fine with him. He obviously thought these were like McNuggets with legs—a little fuzzy, but tasty nonetheless.
    It took Tammy a while to focus her eyes and find the telephone book, the yellow pages, and, finally, the chicken stores. YardDog had consumed a large quantity of some off-brand variety of baby chickens, you see, and the neighbor lady wanted the exact same kind in replacement—just your basic yellow puffball wouldn’t do. After securing the delinquent YardDog in the house, Tammy lit out for the chicken store. She placed her order and received it—forty live chicks in little brown paper bags. They loaded them into the backseat of the air-conditioned Volvo, Tammy being afraid it would be too hot for them in the trunk, and she wanted no more dead chickens on her conscience that day. Well, Tammy is not one of your leisurely drivers even on a good day, choosing rather to sit up on the edge of her seat, cigarette hanging off her lip, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, reenacting Talledega and striking fear into the hearts of fellow drivers—and that day the baby chickens, too, who, by their very nature were chicken-hearted to begin with, and were peeping loudly and straining at the confines of the paper bags. As Tammy careened to a stop at a red light, the bags tipped