Don't hate Mrs. Hillbilly Mom for being beautiful. Hate Mrs. Hillbilly Mom for living in paradise.
Let the record show that you can put your hate on hold until summer. Somebody needs to pave paradise. Perhaps if the deal is sweetened with the option to put up a parking lot, it will happen.
Our gravel road is not so much gravel this time of year as squishy mud punctuated with potholes. Over-punctuated. Call the punctuation police. It's like the surface of the moon here. Like a real-life whack-a-mole game without the moles and whackers. Like a "before" picture of a teenager in a Proactiv commercial.
When I drive over our gateway to the world twice a day, minimum, I feel like a kid again. A kid in my grandma's bedroom, playing on her fat-jiggling machine with the belt strapped against my butt. I feel like a can of paint on the shaker. The innards of a maraca. James Bond's martini.
The only up side to this situation is that maybe the cut-through folks will stop cutting through. Or maybe we'll find a bunch of hubcaps that have been jounced off.
The sad fact is that our ZZ-Top-bearded shovelin' man flew the coop. Headed for the hills. Made a run for it. Made like a banana and split. Made like a baby and headed out. Hit the road, Jack. So we no longer have a guy who spends his days with a wheelbarrow and shovel, scooping up roadside gravel and patching the gaping holes. I miss him. I did, as you remember, stop one day and thank him. Not that I parted with any monetary appreciation. But hey! That guy was doin' all right! Most recently, he had a 4-wheeler, a trailer, two shovels, and a HELPER!
Farmer H says Beardie sold his place out here, and bought some land to the south of us. Probably on a paved road. I hope he remembers us if he gets bored.
You know what they say. The road to the Hillbilly Mansion is paved with potholes.