Quirks.

We all have ‘em.

In one form or other.

Examples proliferate.

Some quirky writers write one sentence paragraphs...

Okay, okay, I’ll stop! Y’all gotta admit I had ya there for a second. I thought I’d take a shot this week at writing about people’s quirks because it’s one of those topics where all women who read this are going to look over at their menfolk and say, “Ha! Quirks! He doesn’t know half of it! You must be only man in America that has to scratch himself “down there” twenty or thirty times a day! Nothing can possibly itch that much!” And all menfolk who read this will then look over at their ladies and say, “Ha! Quirks! I don’t even have to talk about your quirks, I can just talk about how your hair smells right after you get a permanent!” The potential for causing all this mischief is just too fun to walk away from, so I‘m not. I think I’ll get ball rolling by talking about some of my own quirks, which should set table for some good “after column” conversations this week. Here be a few of them:

“I like to be naked.”

Look, I know y’all might be laughing, but I‘m being sincere, I enjoy being naked. I like freedom, I like feeling of air touching me from all angles, and I like not being trussed up in a bunch of starchy clothes. Frankly, being naked is a luxury for me these days, as with having a child still at home I can’t just doff my threads any old time that I want to. At heart, though, I’m a nude dude.

“Hiccups drive me crazy.”

You know, y’all can’t tell me that most people who have hiccups can’t get rid of them if they just use a little will power. The sound of a hiccup drives me insane, and someone having them for a lengthy period of time must simply enjoy having hiccups. I’d rather listen to Amway promotional tapes or watch videotaped surgical procedures than listen to someone hiccupping.

“Long winded preachers make me mad.”

It all started at a church fellowship supper, which is usually centerpoint of any good church. Attend just one church fellowship supper and you learn everything that needs to be known about that church. These functions, as you might guess, are supervised entirely by women of church.

My mother's mystery had roots at a church fellowship supper. Everyone was expected to bring their signature dish.

For example, everyone knew Sister Grace's signature dish was her sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows. Nobody in her right mind would dare bring a similar dish. Also, Sister Sylvia always brought mashed potatoes with gravy, which everybody agreed would be a featured plat du jour at Marriage Supper of Lamb. Sister Eloise's contribution was apple pie to die for, and list went on and on.

Of course, being new to church we did not understand this culinary dynamic. So, when we were invited to first church fellowship supper head lady asked my mother what dish she would bring. Not really having such a dish, my mother casually mentioned meatloaf, which seemed to settle issue.

For some reason church fellowship supper slipped our mind and evening before my mother suddenly remembered. "Oh, my," she exclaimed, "I forgot to make meatloaf."

Being a practical-minded person, she simply went to one of her favorite markets, purchased a freshly made meatloaf and brought it home and "doctored it up," as she said. That settled, she thought no more about it.

The next day at church fellowship supper, we arrived bearing our store- bought meatloaf. How were we to know this was anathema at church? We were just delighted to be with rest of church people enjoying delicacies. I will never forget great spread we encountered. So much food, so little stomach.

Fifteen minutes into eating portion of fellowship supper, people began complementing my mother on meatloaf. "This is," one lady proclaimed, "one of best meatloaves I have ever tasted." Then she said something that sent my mother into a panic. "You just must give me recipe for this delicious meatloaf of yours. I've never had anything like it before."