Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is still shaking after three days of riding around in T-Hoe with Farmer H.
No, I am not shaking from fright, from the fear of his infernal sweaving that would no doubt beat an eager young border collie in that AKC agility trial of weaving through 3-foot tall poles. Except Farmer H goes through the motions in T-Hoe without any poles or reason.
I am shaking from the physical execution of Farmer H's driving style. SWEAVING! At a higher-than-necessary rate of speed. Except when he's going slower than necessary. For example, jouncing down our pothole-choked gravel road at 30 mph, jamming my vertebrae into each other, or into the base of my skull. Or puttering along at 20 mph on the smooth paved road in front of the bowling alley, criss-crossing from one edge to another.
It was on our gravel road that I first questioned Farmer H's driving ability.
"Slow down! You are breaking my neck."
"I'm just going up the hill, Val. I didn't make the road."
"This is too fast for all the potholes you're hitting. You're breaking my neck!"
"I'm not going that fast, Val. You'll be fine."
Seriously. Is it me, not him? You be the judge. I'll retain the titles of jury and executioner.
Is it normal for one's bra strap to be jounced right off her shoulder during a Farmer H excursion through the potholes? Because I think not. I never heard tell of any fine city wife having her bra strap jump ship due to the driving of her husband.