Mrs. HM, The Bobbled Head

Pardon Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's brevity this evening. She may or may not be suffering from a severe case of whiplash. Oh, she's suffering for sure. But the whiplash has not been diagnosed by a medical professional. The etiology of such injury will be understood by regular readers.

Farmer H spent four hours SWEAVING down hilly, curvy, two-lane blacktop with Mrs. HM riding shotgun.

The trip was Farmer H's doing. He decreed that we would be visiting the #1 son at college today, and taking him out to lunch. It IS his birthday. The big one. And because of that, and because Mrs. HM went to college, she figured our presence today would be about as welcome as a help-needing person on The Pony's doorstep.

"I don't really think he will want to spend the day with us."

"I already told him we're coming. As soon as I get off work and get home at noon."

"There goes his morning drinking."

"He'll have plenty of time. He said he has plans that night. We'll be gone after lunch."

So it came to pass that Farmer H got off work early, and we left at 11:00. #1 had already called to see if a friend could come along for lunch. Sure. The more buffers between Farmer H and him the better. Then he wanted to know our ETA. Because his doorbell didn't work. Uh huh. A genius like him can't get a doorbell to work? That's a travesty! What are his father and I the many scholarship committees wasting that tuition money on? Farmer H himself, after 17 years of a broken doorbell at the Mansion, just last month bought one at Lowe's, screwed it into the front wall beside the door (much like that red milk crate for UPS) and hooked the dinger to the hall wall wire that had been sticking out for 17 years. Ever since the old doorbell broke. Or maybe he didn't even need the wire. But it works, by cracky! We now have a doorbell. Even though UPS knows not to try it.

Anyhoo...when we arrived at the house of #1, located on a cul-de-sac, Farmer H pulled T-Hoe into the short driveway. Leaving me a step down from T-Hoe's running board of approximately 36 inches, what with the front tires in the steep driveway, the back tires on the road, and a newly-installed curb running under my door.

"Oh. Do you want me to park on the street?"

"Yes. It's a cul-de-sac! Nobody is driving by. There's a whole circle of room."

So Farmer H promptly backed T-Hoe out of the driveway, and kept backing him to the side of the cul-de-sac. Which also had a new curb. Which stopped T-Hoe's right rear tire quite suddenly. Slamming Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's head back without warning. I daresay it would have shot through the glass of T-Hoe's back hatch had not the headrest stopped it. Suddenly.

I am thinking about a new item to offer on the counter of my proposed handbasket factory. Not quite sure how it will work, but I'm calling it The Hillbilly Head Sling.