Is it good things that come in threes? Bad things that come in threes? Does Mrs. Hillbilly Mom just have an undiagnosed case of blancavanaphobia?
A few evenings ago a white van stopped in front of the Mansion's adjacent 10 acres, and stayed there, lights on, running, for over 15 minutes. Creepy enough. At least I recognized the van when it finally moved on. Then on Saturday, the wife of Farmer H's buddy, Buddy, stopped in her white van to chat with tree-trimming Farmer H, and he virtually gave away Mrs. HM as a companion on a future drive to Oklahoma! Never mind The Pony's references to white vans as raper vans. So you can see why I might be leery of white vans.
The neighbors on our right, the Copper parents, are selling their rocks. They made the deal at the same time all of us did, but the Rockers just now got to their property. Started today, in fact. So now I have to look out for those giant flatbed trucks again on our narrow, winding gravel road. That's the first thing I did when I left the garage this morning on the way to town. Looked over to see if there was a large flatbed bearing down on me before I pulled out of the driveway. Nope. The coast was clear.
On the mile-long trip to the main county road down by EmBee, I was on the lookout for one coming back in. Especially on the twisty hill where the snake was in a tree looking back at me one summer. Oh. Here came a vehicle up that hill just before I got there. I slowed down and got over to the right, two of T-Hoe's tires off the gravel. This was right along where the evening van had been stopped. There's room enough.
This was a white van coming. I thought it was the evening van, but no. While there was writing on the side, this van was not that new. It was like a panel van. Not a small compact electric-car style van like the evening van, and Buddy's wife's soap lady van. This one was kind of beat-up. The paint was chipped off the front edge of the hood. The metal was showing. I passed on by, and wondered who that was, and where they were going.
When I returned from town, I was again on the lookout for the Rockers. T-Hoe is stout, and would come out ahead in a collision with most other vehicles. But not with a loaded flatbed Rocker truck. There I was, starting downhill across the Great Chasm just before my gravel turn, when I saw a vehicle sitting at the bottom, coming the opposite direction. I stopped for a minute, to let it come across that little concrete low-water dip. But it wasn't moving. "Oh," I thought. "That must be one of the Rockers in a lead car, to tell people that a loaded flatbed is on its way, and to wait a minute to let it through."
Then I noticed that this vehicle was the white van I'd seen earlier. Only now, I could read the disintegrating words on the side: Concentrated Laundry Soap. Huh. That didn't seem like something the Rockers would drive. I went across the dip and looked to see if the driver wanted to tell me something. Nope. He didn't even have his window down. Wouldn't look at me. I don't know WHAT he was doing. Just sitting there. So I hurried on up that twisty hill. There was nary a flatbed in sight.
Farmer H doesn't know who that old van belongs to. He said unless it's Buddy's wife's OLD van. But she's had this new one for over a year. It sure wasn't her in the driver's seat. She doesn't have a scruffy beard. It wasn't Buddy, either. He is most often running me off the road in his dump truck. And he often waves.
Funny how Farmer H didn't seem at all interested in going down there and antagonizing the old-white-van driver. Maybe I should have tossed a few sticks out into the road.