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The Man from the Suitcase

My In-laws were in town.

They didn’t come often, mainly because the desire to make sure their golden child was living a godly life was at odds with the deep-down knowledge that he wasn’t.  How could he?  He was living with a jezebel spirit.  The bi-annual visits to our home turf were fraught with tension, made worse by the fact that we had to hide the liquor bottles.

In an effort to pick neutral activities that wouldn’t expose our true day-to-day life of dive bars, profanity and R-rated movies, we found ourselves in Franklin, TN.  Franklin is safe.  Franklin has antique malls, which my mother-in-law enjoyed deeply, second only to eggs-in-a-basket at Cracker Barrel between Sunday services.

We weren’t completely different, she and I.  I too can spend hours in an antique mall, as long as it is the jumbled kind, full of random stalls ranging from prim doilies displayed on elegant sideboards to towering stacks of milk crates full of…

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