Do-Gooding Must Be In The Blood

The Pony is following in Farmer H's footsteps as being a do-gooder for strangers. While talking to a work friend at the post office counter while picking up a personal package, The Pony saw somebody who needed help.

"I did today's good deed! Was showing my new coins to Counter Guy, and an old man hobbling on crutches was coming in while I was gossiping. I got the doors for him!"

Yes. That is a good deed. Especially since The Pony once refused to help an old woman up off the floor when she fell in the Devil's Playground. The Pony was in high school at the time, and plainly told me, "No" when I suggested helping her. Turns out that woman's adult son was with her, and from the commotion that followed, they seemed to be running a scam! Then there was the questionnaire on the FAFSA application, in which The Pony answered that he really didn't care about helping people.

I first sensed that The Pony had acquired some compassion upon finding out that he gave an old lady neighbor a ride to the Devil's Playground to get her medicine. So The Pony seems to have grown into do-gooding.

Those glass inside doors at the post office are really heavy. Or maybe the hinges are just too tight. I'm sure the holding of those doors was appreciated by Old Man Crutches.

How Much Is That Doggie In The Shopping Cart

I dashed hobbled into 10Box on Saturday, on an unexpected whim (as opposed to an EXPECTED whim, heh, heh!), to buy scratchers from the lottery machine. Buying tickets was not the whim, just the location. That story will be told on my not-so-secret blog. The point is that I was in 10Box that day without a plan, and saw an unusual sight.

I was scanning winners into the right-side machine when I saw the purple-haired checker out of the corner of my eye. She wasn't checking, but walking across the end of the conveyor behind me.

"OHHH! Can I pet?"

"Only if you want to lose a finger! Heh, heh! I'm just joking. Yes, you can pet."

I turned to see Purple Hair petting a small dog standing in the bottom of the grocery cart. He was about the size of my little Jack, but not as long. His coloring was black and tan. Black body, brown feet, short fur. I couldn't see his head or face because Purple Hair was leaning over talking to him.

"He's thinking, 'Get away from me, you weirdo!' He's so cute!"

I have no idea why there was a DOG in 10Box! They don't sell pets, just pet food and toys. They don't have a sign welcoming or banning support dogs or animals. I've never seen a critter in there before. Yet here was a lady pushing a small dog around in a grocery cart! I couldn't help but wonder if it hurt his feet to stand on the woven metal that comprised the bottom of the cart.

Just another chocolate from the box of life in Hillmomba!

Another Hillmomban Mystery

Life here in Hillmomba is like a box of chocolates. You can't be quite sure what each day will bring you. Sometimes it's a treat, like when we get a call that one of our properties has sold. Other times it's something distasteful, which you wouldn't share with your worst enemy. Well. My readers are NOT my worst enemy. And I'm a well-known over-sharer. So here you go...

When Hick left the Mansion on Thursday, he was stopped at the top of His and Buddy's Badly-Blacktopped Hill, by a couple of neighbors.

"They said, 'We want you to know, because you're going to pass it, but we've already called the police. So you don't have to stop.' They said there was a car in the creek on that little opening where people drive their 4-wheelers in."

"Oh. By the little waterfall? Where I've seen people parked beside it, blocking the road on that curve?"

"Yeah. Down by where the Bad-Hay-Baling-Lawyer's son knocked out our power on his birthday, knocking down the electric pole."

"Oh. I know."

"I seen it there. It was a little red car, some foreign car. Just its wheels were in the water, I think. They said the driver's door was open, and there was a woman in there, part on the floor, part in her seat. They couldn't wake her up. So they called the police. On my way to town, I seen several county sheriff's deputies on the way, and then the ambulance, and then the ambulance district supervisor. Them neighbors said it looked like maybe it was somebody who had been living in their car. They don't know what was wrong with her."

Well. It's still a mystery. There was nothing in the local online newspaper about it. Nothing on TV. So I figure it probably wasn't a murder or a death. I'm still curious.

Farmer H's Rumpus Is Smiling

You may recall that Farmer H has been embroiled in a fracas with Sis-Town over a "neglect" letter concerning The Pony's yard. A letter and a directive that he needed to cut down small trees growing in the drain/ditch/gutter area in front of The Pony's house, between the sidewalk/retaining wall and the street. Farmer H had complained to the street department and the mayor that this is NOT a responsibility for the homeowner. That it's city property, and he's not licensed or legally covered to do such maintenance, lest damage occur from his actions.

THE PROBLEM HAS BEEN RESOLVED!

When I went to pick up The Pony for our shopping errands on Thursday, I saw that THE TREES IN THE FRONT DITCH WERE GONE! That's the first thing The Pony said when getting into T-Hoe.

"Did you notice that the city cut down the trees?"

"YES! That's what caught my eye when I drove up."

"At first I thought it was just Dad, out there weed-eating, so I didn't get another letter about my yard being a nuisance. But later when I looked out, I figured it must have been the city, cutting down the trees."

Indeed, Farmer H had stopped by to mow The Pony's yard, and was pleased to see that the trees were gone.

"I might bring the tractor to town, and blade the gravel all along there in front of the house. Push it down into the drainage culvert. Now the street won't be flooded along there when it rains, because the water can get down into the sewer. As much as it pains me to think about it, I might have to call the mayor and thank her for getting the trees cut down!"

Heh, heh! That thank-you might be stuck in Farmer H's craw, but at least his rumpus is smiling. Check written, check cashed.

Such A Super Toy

While The Pony might not have fond memories of the SuperBall, after my embarrassing faux pas in Little Caesar's... I DO have a warm place in my cold, cold heart for this toy. I don't know when they were invented, but I know that during my childhood it was so much fun to play with.

I can't remember where I got my first SuperBall. Sometimes you could get them as a prize out of a machine like a gumball machine. Or you could buy a little bag of them at the dimestore. We had a big concrete slab patio that ran alongside our trailer, which was a fantastic place to bounce a SuperBall. Oh, I tried it along the sidewalk, kind of like dribbling a basketball. But there was always the chance that it would land in the grass and get lost. Or worse yet, into the DITCH along the public sidewalk.

Sometimes I cheated playing jacks, and used a SuperBall. I could have been a jacks champion with that little switcheroo! Or if I had more than one, I'd drop them from the same height, and watch until they quit bouncing, to see if one was "better" than the other. They were usually the same. The only drawback was when you got a SuperBall with a raised seam. You know, like where the two halves were put together. Then it bounced wildly. It never occurred to me to ask my dad to trim off that seam with his pocketknife.

During my junior year of high school, I took Advanced Chemistry. There were only a few of us in that class. It was offered as independent study, with a teacher supervising our studies, providing labs and grading papers. She was in a regular chemistry classroom next door, while we were in a glorified windowless storage room. It was long, with an old wooden table down the middle. It was maybe 8 feet from wall to wall, with equipment stored in the back half.

Anyhoo... we were the smart kids, and had our semester's worth of assignments done in the first couple weeks. Of course we rationed them to turn in. We essentially had 50 minutes of free time every day, to do other assignments, or just goof around. Let the record show that the Future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was doing other assignments, while the guys were goofing around!

Goofing around meant slamming a SuperBall against the opposite wall with maximum force, to see who could get the most bounces between the walls until if fell to the floor or table. You had to do your other assignments with one eye on top of your head, and the other on the back of your head, lest you be knocked in the noggin by a speeding SuperBall!

After Farmer H and I were married, and moved into my $17,000 house in town, we had weekend visits from HOS (Hick's Oldest Son) and The (little future) Veteran. One time HOS came out of the bathroom saying the sink was clogged. How unusual. Usually it would be a toilet clogging that you might expect, not a sink. Farmer H went in to check it out. Indeed, the sink was clogged. Nothing going down. Farmer H got a flashlight, and soon returned with a SuperBall stabbed on the end of his pocket knife. Funny how nobody knew how that SuperBall got into the sink drain! My Advanced Chemistry experience gave me a pretty good idea...

Yes, the SuperBall was a super toy. Almost as much fun as Silly Putty.

Don't Break A Fetlock Patting Yourself On The Back, Pony

You may recall that the last time The Pony came out for a BBQ, there was a mystery with FRIG II's icemaker working overtime. Or so it seemed. Until I discovered that it was merely the large slab of compressed cubes displaced by the spiral thingy, which had lifted up all the loose cubes. The Pony admitted to using the door lever to get ice, and causing the confusion.

Well. On Monday, The Pony was here again for a sausage-grilling, and also acting as drink-master. As he was packing up leftovers and getting ready to leave, The Pony said,

"Oh, Mom. You'll be proud of me for using my HANDS to get out the ice this time. So there won't be a slab taking up room."

Oh, sweet Pony. So proud of making that special effort to please me.

Later that night, I went to FRIG II's freezer to get ice for my metal water bottle. Huh. There was a pile of cubes holding up that little lever. You know, the lever designed to sense such a thing, and not keep pumping out ice cubes to overfill the bin. Sometimes I have to whack such a pile, and spread the cubes out flat, to allow more to be made. I reached for the butter knife I keep on the cutting block for just that purpose. IT WAS GONE!

The Pony had used my ice-whacking knife to spread butter on his Sister Schubert's Rolls when getting them ready to put in the oven.

Dang it! I had to reach into the bin and move that pile of ice cubes with my hand. That's hurty. Ice is sharp, and does not take kindly to being pried apart by soft flesh. A good metal whacking is what's needed. But I was not going to take extra steps over to the silverware drawer for a knife.

I have not yet informed The Pony of this icy faux pas. It's coming. Just not today. It's The Pony's busy day, and tonight is a solid 3-hour block of the Survivor premier, and then Big Brother. Tomorrow on errand day, there will be time enough to relay this info to The Pony.

Respect The Lines, Parkers!

As the self-proclaimed Commissioner of the Parking Police, Mrs. HM is ready to start throwing folks into the slammer! No more Mrs. Nice Guy! Do the crime, you deserve to do the time! We don't currently have a facility in Hillmomba to house these scofflaws, but I envision it to be a giant wire birdcage, with perch swings for exercise, and a little trough on the side for feeding them bologna sandwiches on Wonder Bread, raw broccoli, wax beans, and pineapples and coconuts for dessert. No utensils! They're a security risk, you know. Somehow they'll find a way to get into their fruits.

Anyhoo... I really need to find an architect to design my facility, because on Monday I found a violator I would like to lock up. My parking space was fine when I went into the Sis-Town Casey's. A white mini van was parked next to T-Hoe. I had deliberately left enough room for T-Hoe's giant door to open. There's only a striped walkway on the other side, so I was not hindering anybody else. No ramp there or anything. It's all flat.

When I came out, this Ram truck was parked over the line. I'm not sure you can even see the line. There was a lady rummaging around inside her truck, standing outside her driver's door. She could see me, you know, through her open windows. How I was trying to get T-Hoe's door open enough so I could get in. Holding that giant door at the first notch, so as not to hit her precious Ram truck. She obviouosly did not give a fat rat's rumpus about my inconvenience!

I had shoe-horned my feet inside by the time she finally went into the store. That required squeezing my knees past their comfortability, to bend them tighter than usual to get my dang feet in from the running board while I was sitting sideways on the seat. A feat which required pulling on my pants legs to force the tight bend.

Anyhoo... as I recovered before driving on to pick up The Pony, I took a good look at the cab of that Ram truck. IT WAS A HOARDER TRUCK! I swear, that lady might be living inside. If so, she cannot possibly get a good night's rest, because there's nowhere to stretch out! Every inch was covered with her treasures.

I really hope that's just a little vase on the dashboard, and not an urn filled with a loved one's ashes! Because it is tipped over! You don't want a loved one blowing out the window!

Of course at my lock-up facility, we would hold her loved one in a locker, all safe and sound, until Close Parker had served her time.