Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has too much bang. And her husband, Farmer H, has lost his spring. Yeah. We're kind of like Jack Spratt and the missus. Or some warped hillbilly O. Henry tale. Actually, the bang and the spring are not euphemisms for hanky-panky shenanigans. Nor fat and lean, hair comb and watch fob.
The last time I went to get a bad haircut, the...ahem...stylist announced, "That's too much bang!" as she was running her teeth through my hair. Her comb teeth, I mean. She may be a self-proclaimed bang expert, but even she has some limits. According to her asymmetrical calculations, the person who hacked my hair before her had cut the bangs too far around the side of my head. Like that matters to me. Obviously, she has not seen my driver's license photo.
Farmer H's problem lies in the garage. We came home yesterday to find him standing behind his car, staring at the ceiling. Normally, that's something I would not even question. But The Pony was wondering why the garage lights were on, and the front door was open. The front door of the garage, of course. Not the Mansion. We're not some deadbeat renters who have the landlord showing up when we're gone, removing the door from the hinges. Farmer H said his spring broke. Again.
That man is a spring magnet. Have you ever had your garage door spring break? Didn't think so. My side of the garage has never had such a problem. I don't know what kind of garage-door tricks Farmer H performs every evening, but that spring needs to start a stretching regimen yesterday, or perhaps take up yoga.
I don't know how Farmer H got his car out this morning. But he left his side of the garage door closed, with a tall stepladder just in front of it.
I'm sure he'll rig something up. Just like that time he gave me a crutch to hold up the hatch of T-Hoe when hydraulic lifter broke.