We Have Our Own Language In This Here Hillmomban Enclave

Have you heard? Farmer H and The Pony were away from the Mansion for a couple of days. They are most certainly back. It was obvious last evening. The Pony ensconced himself in his indentation on the cushions of the basement couch like he'd never left, and I could hear Farmer H stumping around upstairs on the ends of his tibias and fibulas.

Not only was Farmer H stumping, he was apparently giving a world class exhibition of the Irish jig. And, for good measure, an encore with the Russian Squat Dance.

In fact, up in the living room there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my rolly chair to see what was the matter. Okay. Not really. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not spring. But I DID holler to The Pony.

"WHAT was THAT?"

"Oh, it's just the package people."

Let the record show that just before this most recent flurry of loud thumping, I heard Farmer H's cell phone ring. It's quite distinctive. It sounds like a phone ringing. No fancy schmancy ringtones for my man. A phone is a phone, and it should ring like a phone. To say Farmer H lacks imagination is an understatement.

"Package people? Did your dad order a package? Are they here to deliver it? Answer the door!"

"No! The PACKAGE people."

"What? Are they calling him for directions so they can bring the package? I heard him run to the bathroom to get his phone. He sounded like a herd of hippos on stampede."

"NOT the PACKAGE people! The PORCH PEOPLE!"

"Porch people?"

"Yeah. Juno and Ann. That's what I call the dogs. They're wresting on the front porch."

So much for any semblance of normalcy now that my guys are back under the Mansion roof.