Fear not for my safety from rebels to the south. Texas is huge. San Antonio is far from the border with Mexico.
The Good Friday service yesterday stretched from noon to three o’clock. The sermon Father Haas delivered endured for so long I felt I personally was experiencing each minute of the final three agonizing hours of Christ’s life. Rising from the pew and escaping to the sunshine felt like the Resurrection. To celebrate the end of Lent, I immediately headed to the Creamery Dairy Company in search of a whole gallon of bisque ice cream – heaven – all of which is now gone.
Despite only allowing myself Grape-Nuts for supper, I awoke this morning in need of a skirt in a larger size. The newspaper carried an advertisement promoting a sale at Dalkowitz Brothers, so I hopped aboard the trolley. I should have finished reading the newspaper first.
“Honey from Solms Apiary. The finest in the country, Andy. This nectar comes not from some common native American bee.”
The Colonel has been waxing eloquent over a jar of honey for the past five minutes. Andy knits his eyebrows together and keeps his lips sealed tightly. Struggling, mightily struggling, to stifle the yawn rising from deep in his throat.
“The Carnacian bees that made this honey were imported to New Braunfels from high in the Alps. The Solms Apiary has sixty-two colonies of these bees, and the queens are prolific layers.”
Running later than normal, Mr. K steps briskly into his office. “Queens? Queen Emma held me prisoner in the kitchen this morning. Blocked my escape route with her chair and locked the wheels until she had no more words to unleash on me. I knew it was risky taking her to the Busches’ gilded celebration. Seems I neglected to mark our recent anniversary with tributes befitting royalty, and she wants to ensure I never make such a blunder again. How the Sultan can bear a whole harem of wives is beyond me.