Free Creola's Moonbeam by Milam McGraw Propst

next day.
    “No, absolutely not!” Then I prayed I was right.
    Sure enough, the roofers returned the next morning, short one boy. He must have had an appointment with his parole officer.
    Two days — that’s two long days later — the job was completed. The crew took cash, cash only, and left in a hurry. Most of them were sprawled in the bed of the truck. All of them whooped and hollered as they screeched off down the driveway headed for where, only the Lord knows. Empty beer cans tumbled from the back of the truck. Three houses later, we could hear new cans popping open as the pack roared out of our subdivision.
    Delighted to be done with the Roofers from Deliverance , I vowed to avoid doing any further business with that particular company. I always keep records in my special office drawer about any workmen or companies we have used. Lest I could possibly forget those people, on my list of references, next to their name, in bright red magic marker, I drew a skull and crossbones.
    To my horror, there is a P.S . to the story. It came last month, when our roof had to be completely replaced, not just the shingles, but the whole blasted roof, right down to the house’s original studs.
    In other words, this was going to be a big mess, which would cost lots of money. I didn’t know the technical names for all that had to be done, but it was crystal clear that a $1,300 gutter job — which was to be completed in one day’s work — quickly morphed into a $13,000 gutter-and-roof job with a still-escalating estimate. Along with that, the one-day plan was scratched with a completion date yet to be determined. We were looking at a month-or-longer project.
    I inquired as to what might have caused the expensive problem. The roof man explained, “Well, Mrs. Newberry, I hate to tell you this, but whoever put on that last roof did a really bad job. You folks have probably had some leaking ever since.” With that, he walked the entire perimeter of our home poking a long stick at any given overhang I pointed out. Black rot belched to the ground, forming little piles of proof for his diagnosis.
    I immediately began to plan a trip to the beach. Beau would be most adept at handling this construction job.
    At least he wouldn’t have to deal with junior roofers from hell.

Everyone in the Cemetery Isn’t Dead
     
    by Honey Newberry
     
    Not always, but on occasion, the crazy things that happen to us at home pursue us beyond the city limits. Most dramatically, this phenomenon occurred during a trip to Memphis where we planned, that’s planned, to attend a family wedding.
    Pleased that Beau and I had kept well to our schedule, we decided there was ample time for us to visit my family’s gravesite in Memphis’s historic Calvary Cemetery. Going to a cemetery may not be a festive idea for some people, granted, but for me it was something I felt compelled to do. My husband humored me.
    It was 3:30 on Saturday afternoon. In just three-and-one-half hours, we would be sitting happily with my parents in St. Ann’s Catholic Church, enjoying our cousin Kathleen’s wedding to Jonathan. We’d looked forward to the event for months.
    We had flown in to town the day before. Just barely. I’d managed to leave our tickets at the baggage check-in desk. The desk was located on the sidewalk outside Hartsfield International Airport, some thirty minutes of walking and train-riding away from where we stood, trembling and, as it were, short two tickets.
    Our flight was preparing to board as the authority figure, the airline’s crack representative, steadfastly refused to let us check in simply because we were without the tickets. It needs to be said that the woman had confirmed the fact that the tickets had been recovered and were in the hands of the airline’s staff. We were told that a “runner” was en route. I prayed he was a man with Olympian speed.
    “Rules are rules, ma’am,” she kept repeating over and over again. We’d heard her the