We live in fear around here, The Pony and I. Like prisoners in our own Mansion. Oh, we would like to come and go as we please, wearing what we want to wear, without thought of the prying eyes of strangers judging us on our own turf.
I had just returned from Save A Lot this afternoon, with boxes of food to put away, when Farmer H made his grand entrance. He works until noon most Saturdays. I asked if he had eaten lunch, or if he wanted some of the Ferratto's Rising Crust Pepperoni Pizza I had picked up for The Pony, who, like me, does not like pepperoni. The intent all along was to get something easy to remove from half. I prefer a supreme, but I was not in a mood to pry onions and peppers and nuggets of sausage off a a frozen pizza before cooking.
"Well, I ate White Castle, but I would eat some pizza."
Of course he would. Who in their right mind would turn down Save A Lot brand frozen pizza. Besides Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, too lazy to buy the kind she favors.
Off Farmer H went to do outside things in the 64-degree yard. The Pony and I put stuff away, and I readied the pizza for baking.
"Pony. Take this old Chinese out and throw it in the yard for the chickens. They like the rice."
Off he went, only to return immediately. "I can't. Dad is in the front yard with a guy."
"Who is it?"
"I don't know. But I didn't want to go out there and throw rice." Let the record show that The Pony was still wearing flannel boxers and an old junior college science fair t-shirt that he sleeps in. He had already told me earlier that he had no plans for getting dressed today.
"Okay. Then go dump this leftover Coney Dog sauce off the back porch. I want to wash the container."
Off went The Pony to the back porch. The minute he closed the kitchen door, I hear a motor start up. Like a chainsaw. Or a 4-wheeler. Or the pool pump. The Pony came back in quickly. Mission accomplished.
"What's that noise?"
"I don't know. But now Dad is in the BACK YARD! Doing something by the pool."
"Is that man out there with him?"
"I didn't see him. But probably. I dumped the stuff anyway. I don't think I hit him."
Turns out it was one of the roofer guys. Farmer H called him because he left some screws, or he needed some screws, or he used the wrong kind of screws...who really knows. It was a screwy situation.
The least he could do is tell us about his cockamamie plans and visitors on the property. He himself used to walk out on the porch in his tighty whities and take a whiz whenever the mood struck. Mostly on the BACK porch, thank the Gummi Mary. And I always made sure to tell him if my mom was coming out.
Not that anybody's presence would have stopped him.