Old Wives' Tale

Margaret listened to the wind, uneasy. The dull, throbbin' ache where she'd once got stuck in the wringer washer was poundin' in her hand. Soon the wind would change, she thought. An' the twister would touch down, takin' half the farms up with it. The goiter in her neck started to throb. Yup, right as rain. The hail would be as big as chicken eggs. The varicose veins told her the storm would be blowin' fierce and last 34 minutes. The mole on her shoulder was whisperin', "best get them chickens in the bomb shelter!" The bunion on her left toe chimed in, "Land sakes, Ma! You really want old Pa out there on the tractor when the storm o' the century's a-brewin'?"