Beware Of A Farmer Bearing Gifts

Farmer H is off in France, taking apart 100,000 connections with hopes of hooking them all back up right when the machine arrives at his plant.  I’m not sure if he was exaggerating or not. He has to hire local folk to help with this dismantling project. Of course he speaks not an iota of French. He is planning to use a translator app on his phone. He’s a bit worried that he won’t know which restroom to use, but said he plans to watch and see what comes out the door. Let’s hope the French police haven’t gotten word of his predilection for sitting in his car at the public park, eating lunch and taking a nap. I’m sure the siesta countries would have been more understanding. Maybe he should have bought a machine from one of those locales.

I told Farmer H to bring back a souvenir for The Pony. You know. Maybe some francs. Some kind of trinket, hopefully not a miniature Eiffel Tower or a shirt that says, “My Dad Went To France, and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.” The Pony overheard me soliciting French swag for him in the car.

“That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t mind a French maid.”

Nor would I. But for different reasons, I think.