Well well, all I have to do is start talking about bars and the readership jumps way up there past funerals and bereavement. Here's an odd coincidence of sorts...my husband's grandfather was murdered at a bar called Cotton's about a mile from my house over by the river. It was the era of prohibition and those hidden spots were a haven for booze, gambling and guns. Oh. And barflies! The first short story I ever wrote was about that very place. It's history, as they say. The lay of Tom Cotton's land. Later Mr. Quinn and his wife Ida lived there and raised their girls. We had lots of homegrown strawberries during that time.
Son and Lockie lived right across from our house and had an entire farm consisting of chickens and hogs. The backwater from the river would flood up behind their house up to the coops and me and the Johnson kids would run barefoot in the mud chasing tadpoles. We are still one big family until that chapter ends. Talked to BG today and she's well as can be expected. I'm so freakin' grateful not to have plastic draped over everything that I could just die. I reckon that makes me low maintenance.