Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Thwarted At Every Turn

The Pony and I left school fairly early yesterday. For us. It was a mere 45 minutes after the final bell. I thought we would be out even earlier, but you know how it is. The longer you stay, the longer you stay. I only had one set of papers left to grade. In fact, they were mostly done. Just a set of five questions on each paper to examine, then slap on the grades, put in alphabetical order, record in my old red gradebook, transfer to the electronic grade-keeper, and DONE! That should have taken about 5 minutes. I’m an express-grader like that. My process has been streamlined over the past 27 years.

Yeah. I got that done. Then made the mistake of making a pit stop at the faculty women’s restroom before closing up shop for the day. While seated on my blessedly vacant throne, I heard bantering in the outer vestibule. When I emerged, I found the rule-breaker-minder stuffing teacher mailboxes with work. IT WAS LIKE CHRISTMAS! If you are used to getting presents that require you to work.

I gathered a couple out of my cubby. “Oh, I have more for you.” Uh huh. The perks of hosting multiple rule-breakers throughout the day. I took those papers back to my room. Found multiple answer keys. Graded each one. Took off the proper percent that rule-breakers are docked for…well…being assigned to the rule-breaker-minder for…um…breaking the rules. I flipped through multiple pages of the old red gradebook to record the scores. Scrolled through multiple electronic pages to record the scores. THEN filled out more paperwork for new rule breakers whose sentencing paperwork had magically appeared in my mailbox between 2:00 and 3:00. Searched for future assignments corresponding to their different sentences. Sent The Pony to stuff them in the cubby for dispensation.

AND…we were through.

I had to pick up some prescriptions and mail the weekly $6.00 and note and lottery tickets to the #1 son, so I turned T-Hoe onto the lake road. We were coasting down the hill toward the bridge when an oncoming sports car flashed his lights at T-Hoe and the car in front of us.

“Huh. There must be police waiting to catch us going over 20 by the bridge.” But there wasn’t. We went past the local gun club shooting range, past the mineral business, over the railroad tracks. “Or maybe there’s an accident. I don’t know why else somebody would flash the lights.”

We soon found out. Uphill, on the twisty two-lane blacktop, traffic came to a standstill. And I mean traffic. Normally, we pass a couple of cars coming the other way. Sometimes we see one in front of us, or a couple behind. Now there were about 10 stalled in front of us, and six or eight lined up behind while we sat for five minutes.

“I don’t know what’s going on. That one work truck way up there has its flashers on. But look. There are two dump trucks. Maybe they just came out of the asphalt place. Maybe they’re working on the road. Maybe there was another train derailment. That’s where they blocked traffic to clear up the last one. If they’re working, they should be letting traffic through one lane at a time.”

But they didn’t. We kept sitting. I couldn’t see around the traffic line to see if something was coming. The longer we waited, I was sure nothing was getting through. I had left some room between T-Hoe and the car in front of us. I pulled up and started a T-turn. A truck a few vehicles in front did the same thing. It took me three tries, and I was going back the other way. The longer truck was having a more difficult time. But other cars, seeing our solution, did the same thing. I had a convoy with four cars trailing me by the time I got back to where I started from.

So far, I haven’t found the reason for the stoppage. Nothing in this morning’s paper. No blatant tire marks on the road on our way to school. I’m scratching my head like a primary teacher during head-lice checks.