When I was seven my sister called me a blabbermouth, and by the time I was in the seventh grade my English teacher called me Miss Motormouth.

Even my Daddy told me to stop yammering so he could hear Harry Volkman’s TV weather report.

By the time I was a high school freshman my history teacher moved me three times for talking, and Momma said I’d developed a smart mouth.

When I turned 16 my driver’s ed teacher badmouthed me for talking too much. “You could even make a preacher cuss,” he said.

Then a month shy of my eighteenth birthday I said “I do” when I probably should have kept my big mouth shut.

Three days after my twenty-first birthday I couldn’t stop loving on and talking baby talk to my newborn son, Nicky. I called him Pooh Bear, and three years later called his father my ex after I learned he’d talked out of both sides of his mouth.

In 1971, I married a sweet talking man who read me poetry, whispered sweet nothings, and planned our wedding.

I’d known his parents for years, and was surprised when his high school debate talents surfaced. That’s when he had hot political arguments with his dad that they called discussions.

That same year I became step-mother to Bill’s four children. Two were teenagers. Their grandfather even nicknamed a couple of them Lippy, not because they talked back, but because they talked too much.

Dinner with a bunch of loud mouth kids and their friends was always an experience. Their laughter made us happy, and my biggest problem, other than cooking for so many, was yet to come.

That’s when I had an unplanned sex talk in the car with the oldest teen before I took her to work, then on the way home my son told me a dirty joke he’d heard at play school.

Ten years later the two older daughters turned us into grandparents, and in no time the grandkids were jabbering.

Rachel talked a mile a minute and asked her Grandpa Bill to show a sales clerk how he could take out his teeth.

It was in a visit with Edmond friends when I mentioned that we’d wanted nothing more than for Rachel to talk, but by age four we couldn’t shut her up. “You and Bill are

“You and Bill are pretty good talkers yourself,” she said.

Boy howdy, did she give me an ear full. Maybe I hadn’t let her get

Maybe I hadn’t let her get a word in edgewise, but you should know I came by my gift for gab honestly. Momma had to talk until she was blue in the face to my big sister who was always picking fights with me, and Daddy was never afraid to tell someone how the cow ate the cabbage.

This pandemic has me talking to myself more.

Same goes for talks with the two cats, the TV, car radio, tomato plants and flowers. My potty mouth doesn’t seem to faze them anymore, but they listen to my pep talks better than I do.

So if you try to talk my leg off be sure to know I’ll return the favor because I love to shoot the bull with anyone who’ll listen, or read about it.