Don't Just Mark The Calendar

What's going on? Here in Hillmomba, there has been a contradiction-level event! It's as if the earth has stopped spinning on its axis. I don't even know if the sun is still rising in the east. Okay. That might be because I don't get up until 10:00 a.m. But something odd is happening.

I'm kind of worried about Farmer H. He has limited his illicit Casey's donuts to ONE a day! He's lost 9 pounds. He put away a couple of grocery items a few weeks ago. And it's been well over a year since I've found a banana peel stuffed down in his La-Z-Boy, or clipped toenails in my Frosted Berry candle on the mantel.

Maybe it's another one of his maniacal plans to (I'm pretty sure) try to kill me. Every now and then, such a series of illogical events occurs that can only point my finger in that direction. In addition, sometimes I'm too slow to catch on, and my blog buddy Sioux has to suggest that Farmer H is gaslighting me.

Yes, something is off. I wonder if Farmer H might have fallen on his head while renovating his $5000 house. Lingering effects of a concussion might explain his recent behavior. Or perhaps I should check him for a fever. I don't mean to alarm anyone, but don't just mark the calendar, carve a notch in Stonehenge!

FARMER H ASKED ME TO BUY HIM A BOOK!

Sorry! I should have made sure you were sitting down. Do you need some smelling salts? A cool compress for that knot forming on your noggin? A snort of Papa's Recipe, made by the Waltons' good friends the Baldwin Sisters?

NOW do you understand my concern? Books and Farmer H go together like Mrs. HM and feet. Farmer H has never exhibited an interest in books. He has moved boxes of them for me, and kindly arranged them on shelves "in a way that looks pretty."

I won't say that Farmer H detests books on the level I detest feet, but he shows no love for them. Not even the books I've bought him as gifts. A book on Route 66. A book on the Alaska railways. A book on classic cars. All subjects near and dear to Farmer H's heart. Yet he nods and smiles when unwrapping them, then lets them lay on the pool table until next Christmas. Let the record show that we don't play pool as much as we used to.

I still have tremors in my hands, from last night when Farmer H sent me a text, from his La-Z-Boy down to my dark basement lair, requesting a specific title. I swear, I thought there was something supernatural going on!

"This guy I know has an auto biography about his life ,the title is It's Been a not-heaven of a ride can you get it from your book place I would read it"

[I swear, that's exactly as he typed it, with the exception of me leaving out the guy's name, and switching a certain locale to "not-heaven."]

"My book place? You mean Amazon?"

"Ya Amazon thank you"

"Not there. It's on Lulu. Picture of him on a horse?"

"Yes"

"They have to print it when you order."

"Ok just would like to read it since I new him"

The last time I know that Farmer H read a book (okay, the ONLY time I know that Farmer H read a book) was last summer, when he went to see Atz Kilcher, and a book came with the ticket to the event. It kept him occupied for several months.

Who am I to deny Farmer H the pleasure of reading a book? It shipped last night at 8:16.