My name’s Patty. Patty Charles. I’m 76 years old and kickin’. I live in Savanna, Georgia and I’ve never seen outside city limits, except o’course on the MTV my grandchildren watch when they come and visit. I imagine it’s a sick world outside S’vanna. But anyway, I think it’s ‘bout time you get comfy cozy while I tell you a story.
My late husband Dennis was quite a man, let me tell you. He was two years my senior and I remember when we first met. It was 60 years ago, almost to the day. He was about to get drafted for the War, but had tripped while doin’ some farm work for his daddy, and messed up his knee. I was goin’ to school because Mamma woulda slapped me silly if I didn’t. Anyway, it was a Sunday, and a mighty fine one at that. I had baked a sweet, sweet apple pie. Mamma was famous for ‘em at the church brunches, so I had a lot ridin’ on this particular Sunday.
            I was walkin’ down Main, and noticed a man on one of those bicycles, you know, the ones with the white-rimmed tires, and the candy red paint. I thought he was handsome, and apparently he thought I was a darlin’ on account that he nearly crashed his bike into a farmin’ truck. He swerved outta the way, but hit the curb and went head over heels right onto me, ruinin’ my Sunday dress and my apple pie. Any other man, and I’d be sure to have slapped him so fast, he wouldn’t have known what hit him. But we just looked in each others eyes, and started to bust up laughin’. He had a smiggin’ of pie on the corner of his mouth, took a quick lick, and said his first words to me, and the ones that sealed the deal: “that’s some mighty fine pie. My name’s Dennis Charles”.
We were married about a month after at the church, and were married right up ‘till the day he died, about a year ago. And every year, on the anniversary of the day we met, I would make him a sweet, sweet apple pie, and on his first bite, he would always say “that’s some mighty fine pie. My name’s Dennis Charles.”
He said that every time, except the last. I had just takin’ the pie outta the oven, and placed it on the coolin’ rack. He was watchin’ some television and I asked if he would like some pie. At first, he denied, sayin’ he had had a big breakfast. But I ensured him that this pie, this sweet, sweet pie, was worth tryin’ at least one bite. I brought a generous bite to him on a fork, and with my other hand under the fork making sure it didn’t fall to the floor, I fed it to him. His eyes lit up and he started to say “that’s some mighty fine pie…” but couldn’t finish his classic sayin’. He started to choke, and after about 30 seconds, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he was as dead as a fish in the middle of a desert.
Now I understand that you are probably confused at this point of my story. But let me tell you, he deserved it. I loved him to death, and I still do. But no one lies to Mrs. Patty Charles. I found out when I was doin’ the dishes. I was dryin’ off a plate with a paper towel, and when I went to throw it away, I saw somethin’ I thought I’d never see in any of my years. My sweet, sweet apple pie…in the trash. Dennis didn’t like it. He musta’ never liked it. How dare he throw away a whole apple pie I baked my heart and soul into? He wouldn’t get away with it, and I was sure of it. This was about 5 years ago, but every time I made a pie that would kill him, I threw it out and made a good one, ‘till I just couldn’t take it anymore.
 You might think I was wrong, and try to feed me some mumbo jumbo, but I stand fully behind my decision. No one thought anythin’ of it in our town, on account of him bein’ an ol’ man. Now excuse me, I gotta make some spiked lemonade for the little brats who crushed my prize winning flowers last week with a soccer ball.

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