We Sit at the Bar in the Seafood Shack

We Sit at the Bar in the Seafood Shack

We sit at the bar in the seafood shack on a 70-degree late, December day in Biloxi as the fog bursts through the open window obliterating the view of the Gulf

and chilling us as the temperature drops.  I go to the car for the fleece pullovers and return for the beer and a dozen really plump, pop at the bite and slide down the throat

oysters on the half shell right out of the BP debacled waters. The Tabasco is fresh out of the bottle and never hotter.  The horseradish gallops up my nose. We are in town on

our way to Phoenix from West Michigan via the Gulf coast, New Orleans, San Antonio, Bisbee and Tubac by the day after Christmas when the shops will be open so we can see

all the great fiber sculptures. We will be on the road Christmas day but we figure there will be room at the La Quinta Inn. Instead of being in a stable with smelly animals, we will

be in a nice, clean motel room with an eighty pound, ninety-five year old in human years Chocolate lab who is really smelly because he gets nervous when we travel.  He sleeps on

his own bed so he doesn’t smell up the carpet. He’s a great traveler but he does smell. He’ll get a bath in Phoenix.  Instead of Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus, it is Chris, Bob

and the baby Boomer, God’s gift of unconditional love. We finish the oysters and beer, head to the motel and think about tomorrow’s drive to New Orleans along the coast.

I hope the fog lifts.

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