I am not a gossiper. Don’t believe in it. Don’t practice. Nothing ever comes from it. That’s my official stance and I stand by it even when I am talking at parties about did you hear who is sleeping with whom.
My father, Capt’n Dad, had zero tolerance for loose lips that sink ships. His view was that men should only discuss important topics like horsepower, fishing, politics, SEC football, doing your job, carrying your weight, and work.
Not Sweet Momma. She was born with the Gossip Gene, and she flayed with Olympic finesse. (NOTE TO EDITOR: I know that makes no sense and is grammatically flawed but just go with it.)
She’d harvest good juicy gossip like it was Iowa corn, store it in those little silos in her brain, and selectively dish it to the highest bidder.
She researched and kept those silos full. National Enquirer, People, US, Star, all the tabloids. Some of her favorites carried headlines, “Jen’s Sex Ban on Brad” and “Harry Confesses to William: It’s Hell at Home!”
She could use gossip as a weapon.
She’d throw down the zinger, “Since you’re not gonna take me to the grocery store to get that thing I like I’m not going to tell you about Peter and YOU KNOW WHO. And you’re GONNA WANT TO HEAR THIS!”
I’d try to be cool about it and say in my best Capt’n Dad all-business voice, “Mom, I’m working. I don’t have time for all this busy-bee chit-chat nonsense. If you need to get something at the grocery store, tell me and I’ll get it later,”
Deep down, I was dying to know about Peter and You Know Who. Sweet Momma couldn’t keep it contained any better than I could continue to play it cool. Eventually she’d spill the beans. We’d yuk it up and spend the next hour dissecting motives, opportunities, alibis, consequences, character flaws, and whether the accused parties had it coming.
When I told Sweet Momma I was starting a newspaper her gossip-loving corn-silo brain immediately went to the tabloids. “It will be great,” she said. “There’s so much going on here, it’ll make your head spin. You’ll sell A LOT of newspapers. A lot. Make a lot of people mad though. Your wife won’t like that.”
My wife, The Beloved, is not a gossiper. She doesn’t believe in it, doesn’t practice it, barely tolerates it, and whenever I dish up some inflammatory, libelous gossip she plays it cool and says something along the lines of. “Good for them. Let’s talk about what we’re doing this weekend.”
The Beloved doesn’t read the tabloids. She reads the latest book picks lists in Publisher Weekly.
But. … Once or twice a year she’ll casually toss out a bit of jaw-dropping news as if we’re talking about the weather. It’s typically out of the blue. Over morning coffee or evening refreshments.
Last week we were on the back porch, taking in the last hour of daylight and chatting about the day and our young grandchildren, henceforth known as, The Cutie Wooties.
As I was taking a long pull from my evening refreshment, The Beloved said casually as if reciting the First Quarter 2026 print sales from Random House, “Oh, by the way, Peter and Mandy split.”
“WHAT?” I said, damn near dropping my refreshment. “When? What happened ... What’s the deal? How the …?”
“Mandy told me,” she said, turning the page in the trade publication. “Last month. I forgot to tell you.”
“FORGOT?” I said. “We’ve known them since, since … lord, who knows. What happened?”
“Don’t know,” she said.
“What’d she say?” I said.
The Beloved flipped some more pages of Publishers Weekly. “Peter moved out,” she said.
“Say why?” I asked.
“Didn’t ask,” she said.
“How could you not ask?” I said.
“If she wanted to tell me she’d tell me,” The Beloved said. “If she didn’t, she didn’t. And she didn’t, so I didn’t either.”
“Whyd’aya think, though?” I said.
“She didn’t say and whatever it is is up to them,” said The Beloved, eyeballing my rapidly emptying evening refreshment. “What do you care? Besides, she didn’t mention the thing with the neighbor.”
This is some Tier One community gossip. Why do I care? My Sweet Momma would KILL for details.
“Thing with the neighbor?” I said. “Which neighbor? The weird guy who drives the Harley or the other guy who’s a Mormon.”
The Beloved was unflappable, saying nothing about nobody, scanning the book-seller trade publication like it’s a day at the beach.
“I’m surprised everyone’s not talking about it,” I said. “Lord! Peter and Mandy?”
“They are,” said The Beloved.
“They are what?” I said.
“They are talking about it,” she said, frowning while I stood to refill my evening refreshment. “Everywhere.”
Not where I’ve been, apparently.
“But the police quieted things down with the arrest,” she said.
“ARREST!,” I said. “Who … Which …. Arrested? Why am I just now hearing about this? Peter and Mandy? Moving out? Police? Neighbors?”
This is some seriously good small-town gossip. And the police? This is news that sells papers, if a person was lowlife enough to be into that business.
Not me. I am interested in the DETAILS! I want to know which one of the Loon-o neighbors got in between Peter and Mandy and whatever was done was enough for Peter to load up a U-Haul and vamos it into the sunset.
“So now what” I asked The Beloved, sitting back down fully stocked. “Peter gone for good? Mandy staying in that Big House? And the neighbor that got arrested? What’s his deal?”
“Look, this isn’t news,” she said. “You’re only interested in Real News, town budgets and schools. The Paper doesn’t publish gossip.”
“Didn’t,” I said. “Circulation drive is coming up.”
