The tongue has no eraser, and mine just wrote a gang of words I wished I could expunge.
I was new to the local town, having temporarily moved back in with my parents while I searched for employment. One of the area’s popular attractions on Saturday morning was the local flea market. Folks would gather to shop and commune with friends. On this particular Saturday, Mom had rented a booth to dispose of some odds and ends. Since Dad wasn’t the flea market variety, she chose me as her assistant. As we pulled up to our assigned booth and began unloading our wares, I noticed the neighboring seller unloading some of his treasures on one of our tables. When I confronted him, he mouthed something about that being his table. I jawed some unmentionables right back at him, informing him the table was ours. Mom was upset and embarrassed—not because of his using one of our tables but because he was a church member that I’d just cursed out. When she informed me, I looked for the eraser.