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Southern Hospitality
Her last hint was a yawn print, kind of like a paw print, but more difficult to find.
She wasn’t a wild animal, at least not on the outside.

Yet she felt as if she had been tracked before, maybe at the pharmacy, or the post office.
The possibilities bored her, so she let the thoughts exhale into the air with a sigh.

The world humor was down as the election neared, and governments struggled with
their emasculation of power to do good. Amish were shearing each others hair,
a magnetic car bomb killing a nuclear scientist, & starlets’ dresses flopped at the Golden Globe Awards.

All the while the people died.

Everyone went on blathering about their weekend or their Facebook page.
The inane dailyness of the goings on was like a white linen tablecloth and gourmet meal being arranged amidst a tornado.
The choice of salad toppings discussed while a cow
whishes past your head and slams into a semi truck trailer.

There was only one bit of news that caught her attention. Neti-pot death.

Naegleria fowleri. The Louisiana state epidemiologist had said,
“Drinking water is good to drink, very safe to drink, but not to push up your nose.”
The small genie shaped device could be a deathtrap.
Her 51 year old church member had tested positive for the stuff,
in her post mortem encephalitis affected brain tissue, and her kitchen tap too.

And that was it, her being a Christian woman, and a good Southern one as well.
God had given us all things, even the bad, could be used for good.
Didn’t he teach his people with snakes and famines to be humble and obedient,
thus saving them from further harm by breaking His laws?
That was why in church they passed around snakes,
only on special occasions of course, to show the strength of his spirit.

And it was His spirit that gave her the strength to do it. She being simple and big hearted.

The people were dying, their children too. Something had to be done, just like cleaning house and cooking dinner,
and boy, did she have the recipe.

Younger years had given her college days, and some of those friendships endured.
Old fashioned letter writing to a pen pal, a former foreign exchange fellow student, now kept her in tune with the real side of the revolution.
Her friend’s life was at risk every moment, she being a close member
of the President’s staff, but secretly siding with the protest.

The classmate shared her plight with the Louisiana woman using coded letters,
a language just their own, they had created for fun years ago.
The words fell upon the heart of the Christian church woman like a stone.
Torture of children, disappearance of husbands and brothers,
rape and murder of sisters.
Five thousand dead and nothing done to the smiling man behind the microphone,
talking of an iron fist he would still yield.

So when she was part of the volunteer church group to help settle the affairs of her deceased church member, she helped herself to some of the tap.
Water that is.

You see, it is a little known fact to the world, that sometimes well known
diplomats suffer from sinus conditions.
It’s not something their speech writers cover. But it is something
a close aide would know.
And that close aide was her classmate and friend.

The people were dying, the children too. She wrapped the Neti-pot and small plastic squeeze bottle of Louisiana tap water,and mailed it international post.

She didn’t have the resources or arms that the Mexican Cartel did,
who were to be hired as Saudi hit men.

What she did have was water. God’s gift of life for the people.
He had divided it so His people could walk free from Egypt on dry land,
and now she would use it for the same.

The CDC says, “Once the ameba enters the brain, it causes a usually fatal infection called primary amebic meningoencephalitis (PAM)."
Wikipedia: “N. fowleri can invade and attack the human nervous system.
Although this occurs rarely, such an infection nearly always results in the death of the victim. The mortality rate is estimated at 98%.”

And that was good enough. Enough for Mary Sue, a simple Southern church woman, that 98%.

It was more than was being done by NATO, or her own government. And it was, or
she truly believed, from God.

Her last hint was a yawn print, the pain from the cancer now too bad. A few extra pills and she would soon see her church friend,
and all of those freedom fighters she read about in her classmate’s letters.
She wanted to hold the children and tell them how brave they had been. She wanted to tell them that, they had made her very proud.

And then, the story about the Genie in the bottle

Or the one ~ in the Neti-pot. She closed her eyes and hoped for a good ending.

©2012 Ruth Follmann