Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Spine, And Other Bones

Once upon a time, when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was newly married, or at least during the first five years, before Baby Genius made his appearance...she grabbed a quick nutritious lunch of canned chicken. Yes, it may not be appealing, but it was cheaper than getting fast food, and more nutritious.

Farmer H worked in the city then, and was not needing a prepared lunch. I was either off for the summer from a teaching job, or working down the street at the unemployment office. I could dash home for lunch, and not have to take one and risk it disappearing in the break room refrigerator. Not because it would have been so delicious and irresistible to a brown bag thief, but because the interior of that fridge was like a dense forest from which food sometimes did not return.

Anyhoo...I remember sitting in the living room of my $17,000 house in town, kicked back with a fork, eating my white chunk chicken right out of the can, with a piece of bread on the side. Oh, the HORROR when I bit down on something hard. You don't expect that, you know, from canned white chunk chicken. I could have been a BEAK! But it wasn't. It was a bone.

This bone was not small. It was not a flat flexible rib bone. Nor was it the needle-pointy, stabby bone off the leg. It was cylindrical, too small to be splintery, but strong enough to have done some damage, had I bit down on the ends while chewing. I spit it out and poked through the remaining chicken. You don't think I was going to waste that protein, do you? I found one more small bone. I laid both of them aside on a paper plate, went back to work after lunch, and started a letter to Sweet Sue when I got home. Yes. Mrs. HM grew a spine and stood up for herself!

It was not a letter of outrage. It was a letter of concern. About how I was fine, but I could have skewered the roof of my mouth and pierced my tongue if I bit down wrong. Not that there's a right way to bite a bone hidden in Sweet Sue canned white chunk chicken. I was merely pointing out that there might be a problem with their quality control if a bone stowed away in a can of chicken. I did not want anyone else to get hurt. I made no threat of a lawsuit, nor did I demand reparations.

A few days later, my bones were brittle. Dry. I tucked them into a snack-size baggie, slid it into the envelope with my letter, and the label, for evidence, and sent it off to Sweet Sue.

Several weeks later, I got a letter of apology. I don't remember if it was signed by Sweet Sue herself. Perhaps she was off bonnet-shopping with Little Debbie. Maybe a minion forged her signature. But it was signed, not stamped. And enclosed was a stack of coupons for Sweet Sue products. You can bet I used them! Times were tough! I had a $17,000 house to pay for!

I bear Sweet Sue no ill will. She responded promptly and politely and kind-of-monetarily. I don't have Sweet Sue in my Mansion now. I have Swanson.

No bones about it.