Though February 29th, two thousand and twenty two lapsed more than two hundred and thirty seven years ago, I still remember that brutally cold eventide, where the howl of old man winter emulated an open Pandora box of screaming banshees. The ghost of my late spouse (Madeleine Maddie Scott) softly padded down 14,846,867,533 cellar stairs consuming her soul, which led into pitch black basement area co-opted as my hue man cave, and essential habiliment housing a plethora of inspirational philosophical ruminations comprising the sum total of mine literary oeuvre.
     She planted a strong suction kiss upon the left side of me grizzled sunken hallowed left facial cheek, which smooch left an indelible blotch on my already liveried colored countenance. Though fitted for dentures son after celebrating one hundred fifty-seven plus years bumbling along, I long since ceased wearing false teeth and blithely accepted mine treasured sunken cheeks. Over time faulty attendance to maintain removable choppers and eventually forgetfulness lapsed into full fledged memory loss, eventually witnessed the false teeth to resemble a miniature barnacle clad once sea worthy skiff.
     I remained holed up like a matted rat in a cage (feeling like a smashed pumpkin) once demise of thy missus sealed status as an old curmudgeon man amidst his Ongepatchket cluttered floor to ceiling deep hole in the ground. Most would dismiss my pile of scattered scraps of flashes of catchy words and/or phrases as the classic symptom of a pathological hoarder. Though unlikely the chaotic strewn unpublished manuscripts would never see the light of day, a personal attachment existed to what most would concur the scribbling of a cockamamie misanthrope. Some of these dealt with being manumitted from the shackles of marriage, yet every now and again, a teardrop forms reminiscing about thine ole wife. Amidst scrawled papers (some whose ink faded beyond range of readability constituted amorous endearments to thy late wifely counterpart. She earned the nom do gluteus maximus “buttocks blaster” per quite an eruptive sphincter muscle. This endearment the wife lovingly accepted, and asked for said motif to be etched on her tombstone. Mine epitaph (unless the choice of cremation not honored), would be FLAUTENCE FOREVER. Sheesh…even though embarking on the afterlife, thee lack of company from heck pecking wife fraught with sweet sorrows. Boy, could she let loose a rip roaring, supersonic, titanic tumult from her dry leathery tushy. Smack dab opposite side of the webbed wide world subsequently registered the highest magnitude earthquakes, Tsunamis sired tidal waves that swallowed low-slung villages.
     That divine dwelling (nestled along trestle within Bryn Mawr; Pennsylvania; 19010) found me a widower about a half-century prior to endeavor to organize for anonymous reader, what appears as gobbledygook. The idea to remarry (the emaciated looking landlady with thick German accent despite living in United States more'n half her life) flitted like a shuttlecock to and fro – hither and yon – within dis atrophied flint rolling stone hove a noggin, but solitude seemed satisfactory as an old leather glove.
     As one among coterie of fine prairie home companions, this Norwegian bachelor  (Oslo as molasses) farmer munching on powder milk biscuits found fjord able bad company.