I know for my seven or so die-hard readers that this here blog space doesn’t necessarily provide startling worldly insights.

I know that there is nothing particularly scintillating, prosaic or profound in this tiny corner of cyberspace.

But I do have a case of Who Done It that has me befuddled…and just a tad bit worried about my sanity.

Yes. Your eyes are not fooling you.

That’s St. Joseph…on my kitchen counter.

St. Joseph. Patron Saint of Home Sales among other things

I found him standing upright and headless, in a pile of leaves, on the back porch.  This was actually a few weeks back.  I’m just now able to talk about it.

Perhaps dear seven or so readers you’ll recall from a post over a year ago, while living in my sweet home Alabama house I got so fed up with St. Joseph that I dug him up from his backyard location and threw him into the hummingbird feeder.

“Take that,” I had said in a purple minion moment. I was none too pleased with his apparent inability to attract buyers for our middle-earth home.  Oddly enough, the real estate world has supreme confidence that planting a St. Joseph statue in the yard will make for a quick home sale.  Google it.

Needless-to-say when I told my sis what I had done she was shocked at my uncharacteristic burst of anger.

“You know it’s born out of total frustration,” I had said. “Besides, really…just maybe St. Joseph doesn’t want to be head first in the ground. Who made up that rule anyway!  Just maybe he’d much prefer standing upright with a clear view of the yard.”

And here we are today.

As God is my witness I am not sure how–or-by whom– this alleged act of violence took place.

Could it have been at my very own hands?  I’m wracking my brain here….

Perhaps I was sleepwalking?

I had an encounter many years back with a sleepwalker. Let’s just say it was mighty freaky to be startled awake in the wee hours of the morning by someone standing at the foot of the bed, still as a statue, staring at me.

Nope.  I can’t possibly have that unfortunate affliction.

Perhaps I had a severe purple minion moment in which I committed this dreadful decapitation, the act being so traumatic to my psyche that I blocked it from memory?

Hmm.  That’s a distinct possibility. There is much from my childhood that has been wiped-out.

Let’s point fingers at The Poodle.

Aha!  It had to have been my four-legged love.  Sorry old boy to throw you under the bus.

Nah. On close inspection it is a decisive clean cut.  This seems to have been a professional hit?  (I’m half-Italian after all;  I’m sure there is a Guido who carries a violin case in the family tree somewhere)…

So, it could not have been The Poodle.  There, there my boy.  I was only teasing when I accused you.

Rocket-man? you ask. I shudder to think I’m in bed with an axe-murderer.

But here’s the thing folks….

Apparently it takes an off-with-the-head method to get things done when it comes to selling one’s home.  Who knew?

I’m ashamed to admit this but….

It matters not how St. Joseph lost his head.

It’s been two years, 15 days, 10 hours and some number of minutes.

WE HAVE A CONTRACT!

I will state that again, just because…..

WE HAVE A CONTRACT!

No…It’s not pretty. We’re losing our shirts on this one. But we have a contract. Now it’s prayers that things proceed without nary a hiccup.

Two mortgages be gone!

So, for those of you wanting to plant St. Joseph in the backyard according to the instructions provided in the nice little pamphlet in the box he arrived in, you may want to consider the off-with-the-head approach, but only as a last resort.  It’s traumatic….but it works.

Cartwheels of joy in Northern Virginia.