“That’s illegal, ain’t it?” Earlene asked, smiling.
Myra just smiled. “Honey, in Claiborne County, a conspiracy is just another word for community. Now are you going to take my eighteen checks, or am I driving them to the Jackson Clarion-Ledger and telling them you lost your best rural market?” mississippi market bulletin subscription
“Myra, I can’t click a button that ain’t there,” Earlene said, sliding a check for $18 across the counter. “But I can mail a check. And you can mail me my bulletin. Same as my mama did for thirty years.” “That’s illegal, ain’t it
Every Wednesday for the next six months, Earlene found the thick manila envelope in her roadside mailbox. Inside, the pages were warm from Myra’s laser printer. Earlene read it on her porch with sweet tea and a pencil. She circled a man in Vicksburg selling pear preserves. She called a woman in Natchez looking to trade two goats for a working tiller. She learned that catfish feed was up a dollar a bag, and that someone in Yazoo City had found a lost blue heeler with one white paw. Now are you going to take my eighteen
“Earlene—We’re up to 19 now. The new subscriber works in Jackson and doesn’t know a thing about goats. Be kind. –M”
Earlene heard the story three days later, when her bulletin arrived. Tucked inside the front page was a handwritten note from Myra:
“How much for a one-year paper subscription?” he asked.