Wait a Second was that Dottie Sandusky?

There is a sensational trial going on right now in Bellefonte. Pennsylvania is once again in the national news.  Each and every day, we watch the new and lower life forms being ousted from public positions of trust that they have held for years.  Ousted they are, but I weep at their corrosive legacy. Our leaders harmed us, consistently and brazenly!  There is nothing we can do to fight back, so we hold onto the anger.  Oh that is a famous Pocono Mountains routine! I'm a powerless old lady.  I cry a lot each time I realize that every tier of our local government and almost every educational institution in Northeast Penna has been systematically corrupt for generations. I want to pray for a more righteous and just Pennsylvania, but it seems as though Pennsylvania citizens haven't known even one day of life without the mar of grievous betrayals!  Who the heck can keep up with all of that when I'm busy praying for so many other things in my own terrible life?

I don't know what the heck she was doing in Wilkes Barre, but it happened about 6 months ago right here in Public Square.  A lady with yellow teeth came and sat next to me while I was feeding the pigeons some breadcrumbs.   The day was chilly, but she was dressed in a ski parka and poly skirt and a pair of sandals with her toes hanging off the front edges.  No hosiery, tut tut. (Proper foundation undergarments [girdles] are essential for women of a certain age to [how shall I say it] keep things together, but today was a day she had obviously gone without.)

I took particular note of her lower extremities, her ill-fitting vinyl padded sandals with braided jute across the vamp, and the several toes hanging off the front. They were dry and crackled, and each toenail was yellowed like her teeth, resembling a tiny bacon rind.  It appeared to be an officious toenail fungus, the likes of which no podiatrist of average merit could rectify on even their most triumphant of days.  My own toenails aren't looking so hot these days due to my swollen ankles, so I understood her predicament.  But.  Goodness gracious, I keep my toenails covered in good taste and decency.  

Dottie's toenails (If this was, in fact, Dottie Sandusky!) were not covered.   She just plopped herself down on the bench adjacent to mine and after several minutes of silence, pulled out a cellar phone and placed a call.   I recognized the attention grabbing cock of her head when the party to which she connected said hello.  She trumpeted her remarks into my general vicinity so as to provide ease of listening for both me and the birds.  I believe she was "whooping it up" for my benefit as she intoned:

"Gerry and I are in town for two bleep-ing days and you know what? You can go bleep  yourself, okay?   Bleep YOU and your lousy Scampi.  No i'm not going to calm down, you think the plates of shit (bleep) at your restaurant are any better because you're the one open the longest?  Our table stunk and your service stinks and the people in the other room were talking about us!  You kept me and Gerry on the toilet all night with the *bleeps*.  I can't wait to get onto the interwebs to smear your lousy name into the mud on every single solitary website I can find with the name Hottle's on it!!   *Bleeeeep* you!!"

By this time my eyes were fluttering everywhere and I began to get very nervous, as is often the case whenever I bear witness to salty behavior from a gal. I naturally assume all women know the value of dainty conduct in public, and how to act accordingly.  But that's always been my problem, folks:  Giving too much credit where absolutely no credit is due.  

I was completely flustered at this point, and Dottie (if this was actually her) caught me looking.  My loaf of pigeon bread had been entirely depleted, and I didn't have any activity to camouflage or mask my eavesdroppish behavior, so I glassed up my eyes and pretended that I didn't notice her noticing me and began pulling imaginary lint off of the sleeve of my knit sweater. (Part of me wanted to engage her in conversation so that I could tell her to try some apple cider foot baths and to stop wearing open toed shoes.)  She stood up, inhaled loudly and said in a terrifying low baritone, "Which bus goes out to Miners Mills?"  and I was so frightened now,  I grabbed my cane and screamed in horror hoping that she would assume I was truly insane and step back to allow me a safe window of retreat.  Which is exactly what happened.

But when I screamed and yelled, my flapping arms and loud voice caused all of the well-fed pigeons in Public Square to scream and flap their arms too.  Dottie, well, let's just call her Dottie just in case, became trapped in a fray of birds just like the gal in the Hitchcock movie.  One actually hit her in the side of the head while I ambled my way to the safety of my parked car nearby.

Please tell me there were others there, who saw her too?  We know he's locked up behind bars now, but where was her Gerry that morning, and who was she going to see in Miners Mills?   I know I was screaming loudly, and the birds were really cavorting, and perhaps some passersby saw the commotion, and someone can step forward to help me confirm that this isn't just another one of those holy stupors  I am plagued with from time to time.

Yours in the Love of Christ,

Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas, Jr.