Baker's Branch

           Men and women do not react to happiness the same way. Women cry over things that make them happy. Men don't do that. A movie with a happy ending will make a woman cry. So will a graduation, hers or someone else's. A gift card, with no money in it? Oh, yes. A wedding? Holy mackerel. The list is practically endless.         Once I became aware of this significant difference (I was maybe eighteen, thereabouts) I began to employ it to my benefit, and never looked back.         When my wife and I married (Wewoka First Baptist), older women all over the sanctuary, older women she had known for years, broke into tears, recalling no doubt her earlier promise (substantial), and, now, right in front of them, the reality of the fine catch she had made. There it was, me, standing up there beside her for all of them to see. At some point during the ceremony, I heard a sob or two behind me and turned to look and see what seemed like a roomful of white handkerchiefs fluttering

My wife is a good cook. Not me. I have to cheat. Somewhere around Memorial day is when you are most likely to catch me. I’m pretty good at it. I’m probably doing it as you read this. I watched over my father’s shoulder the first chicken he ever charcoal grilled. It was up in Nebraska where we were visiting my grandpa Harry between dad’s naval service moves. He hated growing up on that farm, but somehow always managed to pull us into that muddy drive just north of the milk barn for “leave” between the two coasts. Remembering his parents, he wanted to visit with them, farm or not. If we were to stay a week, Dad would get bored somewhere around the third day in, and start doing the farm chores he joined the Navy to get away from. Mowing alfalfa to be baled, he would jump down off the tractor and run down baby jacks and cottontails fleeing the side-mower blades. I said, “run them down”. It didn’t seem possible, but he would bring them to me in a cardboard box to play with. Once he brought