One Man's Trash Is Another Man's Telephone

This morning on the way to school, T-Hoe put a tire wrong. Or that's what I prefer to believe. Because I am quite sure that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a reckless driver. That she could not possibly be responsible for taking a turn just a smidge too fast, causing unfettered objects to fly about the interior of T-Hoe like various and sundry items in the cabin of that Boeing 707 in the movie Airport, just after nervous passenger Dom Guerrero detonated his briefcase bomb and blew the side out of that aircraft.

When we were aligned in our next to next to last parking slot at the east end of Newmentia, The Pony failed to grab the classroom key and load up his beast-of-burden back to carry our stuff inside.

"Uh. Are we going in today?"

"Just a minute. I can't find my phone. I know it's in here somewhere, because I was tethered, using my internet. I just can't seem to find it. It slid off the seat when you turned."

Yeah. Everybody's quick to blame Mrs. Hillbilly Mom when an unsecured item goes missing during a 40-minute drive. Besides. He said it was tethered. Of course, with all these fancy schmancy doodads and gewgaws the kids play with these days, that may or may not mean a wire was plugged in. The Pony contorted and made Gumby arms and practically stood on his head from his second-row seat right behind me. He should know better than to lay his slick-surfaced phone on the folded-down back of the passenger seat next to him. It's nothing more than a carpeted table in that position. A smart phone isn't safe in a T-Hoe full of flat carpets. Especially if there's some surprise careening involved.

"Why don't you just get out of the car and go around to that side and open the door and look for it?"

"I don't know. It's got to be here somewhere." The Pony commenced to rustling through a pile of items he can't do without. He's a regular scaled-down back-seat car-hoarder. He's the mini Babybel cheese of hoarders.

"Do you want me to call it?"

"Yeah. That would be a good idea."

I called. Twice. Once I got the message that the number could not take my call. Then it went straight to voice mail. THEN, without a third dialing, the phone started to ring. Faintly. I turned down the radio. The Pony tilted his head like a harbinger of spring listening for underground worms.

"I STILL can't find it!" He scooted some papers around. Leaned over into the third row. Rustled some more. IT WAS IN THE TRASH!"

Yes. The Pony's phone had slid off the folded-down passenger seat-back and into the plastic bag donated by The Devil from his Playground, which was hanging on the armrest of the passenger seat.

Nobody tethers The Pony to the back seat.