Hmpf! It's that time again. Summertime. The time for city folk to convene in Hillmomba for free nature. Yeah. So bold, those city slickers. I'm sure it's not regular Hillmomba citizenry congregating on our creek banks. Hillmombans would not be driving sedans. They would be in respectable rusted-out pickup trucks. Not sleek automobiles with nary a dust speck, all parts in matching colors, shining like new dimes.
Yep! They're here. Taking an early exodus for Friday's 4th of July holiday, perhaps. Not one, but TWO cars were parked on our gravel road around 1:00. Parked like they owned the place, doors wide open, trunk up, a skinny kid in red swimming trunks running around with a bucket like this is the beach. Oh, adults were there aplenty. Two, wearing T-shirts to denote their foreign, not-of-Hillmomba heritage, were hunched over downstream from the bridge. No idea what they were up to.
In the upper creek, that kid waded in and grabbed his beach ball, a red plastic orb that did not look like the kind you blow up. Good, or bad, I suppose. Because anybody who would put their lips to something that had been in that creek would come to no good end. The three upper adults had several white buckets stacked in the middle of the creek. I don't know what that was all about. Maybe it was just a creek seat. They had the water all stirred up and muddy. I did not see any minnow traps or dip nets, which are what bring native Hillmombans into this creek: for BAIT.
I'll be darned if those upper creeksters didn't have A BLUE IGLOO COOLER sitting in the middle of the creek. Yeehaw! Ain't no Hillmombans going to the trouble to carry a cooler into the creek. They put their six-pack directly into the creek to maintain its convenience-store temperature. That cooler ain't gettin' any cooler in the creek. It should stay in the back of the truck, icing the 30 pack of Busch so it's drinkable as soon as the six-pack is gone.
These squatters didn't even have the decency to park at the very end of our gravel road, on the pretense that creeks are free and unowned, and they were simply getting their vehicles out of the way of traffic. Nope. There they were, all trespassy, 60-70 feet up a private gravel road maintained by the pockets of the landowners, and the kindness of a creepy meth-beard guy with a wheelbarrow and a shovel.
Yes. I shook my fist at them as I drove around their automotive barricades, and muttered, "Dang slickers! Get off my road!"
I hope they get to meet several of Missouri's five species of lamprey during their aquatic interlude.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Monday, June 30, 2014
I'd Put Up A Crossing Sign, If I Only Knew What It Was
Oh, dear. Life in Hillmomba is so complicated. Just when you think you are well-versed in the local fauna, a new critter rears its unattractive head.
On the way home today, around 1:30 p.m., on the blacktop county road beside a creek, I almost ran over a writhing...twisting...THING. At first I thought it was a snake that had already been hit by a previous motorist. But it was not long and slim and whip-like, as any proper snake would appear. No. This THING looked like a lamprey. Perhaps you've seen them on TV, or in YOUR SCIENCE BOOK. They are thick and stubby compared to snakes. We won't go into their mouths as opposed to fangs. No sirree, Bob! But if you are feeling brave, you can look at this picture of a lamprey...if you dare.
I didn't see any teeth. I just saw a gray, writhing, stubby, snakelike critter flipping and flopping like one end of it was nailed to the pavement. It was about a foot long. I never want to see one again. I did not even slam on the brakes and back up and make The Pony get a picture. It was creepy.
But wait! Before we even got that far, another critterific incident befell us. There I was, minding my own business, having just driven through the green light all proper, coming up in front of The Voice of the Village, approaching my turn into their parking lot...when a gray furry animal darted this way and that in the roadway. He was feinting like a base-runner caught in a run-down, almost daring me to flatten his carcass.
"Huh," I thought. "That little squirrel is going to get smashed quicker than you can say 'Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster tail.'" I could not stop, nor could I swerve, having a left turn lane always full of cars going to Save-A-Lot on my left, and a rather deep drainage ditch on my right. I forged ahead. Squirrels are agile creatures. You don't see nearly as many of them flattened on the road as you do those lead-footed possums. I proceeded at my present speed. As I drew nearer, just before T-Hoe passed over the dancing daring rodent, I recognized that squirrel impersonator.
IT WAS A GRAY RAT!
Uh huh. A rat the size of a squirrel. Ratty tail, not puffy squirrel tail. This is the second time I have been fooled by a rat impersonating a squirrel. The first time was many years ago on the way to Lower Basementia one morning. That one was up on a power line, running along like a baby squirrel without a puffy tail. It was a bit disconcerting to discover a rat running to and fro between the Subway/Save-A-Lot building and my soda-providing Voice of the Village. I was trying to put that out of my mind when I saw the snake/lamprey. It takes a special kind of people to settle Hillmomba.
A land where rats are the new squirrels, and toothy aquatic parasites sway like charmed cobras.
On the way home today, around 1:30 p.m., on the blacktop county road beside a creek, I almost ran over a writhing...twisting...THING. At first I thought it was a snake that had already been hit by a previous motorist. But it was not long and slim and whip-like, as any proper snake would appear. No. This THING looked like a lamprey. Perhaps you've seen them on TV, or in YOUR SCIENCE BOOK. They are thick and stubby compared to snakes. We won't go into their mouths as opposed to fangs. No sirree, Bob! But if you are feeling brave, you can look at this picture of a lamprey...if you dare.
I didn't see any teeth. I just saw a gray, writhing, stubby, snakelike critter flipping and flopping like one end of it was nailed to the pavement. It was about a foot long. I never want to see one again. I did not even slam on the brakes and back up and make The Pony get a picture. It was creepy.
But wait! Before we even got that far, another critterific incident befell us. There I was, minding my own business, having just driven through the green light all proper, coming up in front of The Voice of the Village, approaching my turn into their parking lot...when a gray furry animal darted this way and that in the roadway. He was feinting like a base-runner caught in a run-down, almost daring me to flatten his carcass.
"Huh," I thought. "That little squirrel is going to get smashed quicker than you can say 'Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster tail.'" I could not stop, nor could I swerve, having a left turn lane always full of cars going to Save-A-Lot on my left, and a rather deep drainage ditch on my right. I forged ahead. Squirrels are agile creatures. You don't see nearly as many of them flattened on the road as you do those lead-footed possums. I proceeded at my present speed. As I drew nearer, just before T-Hoe passed over the dancing daring rodent, I recognized that squirrel impersonator.
IT WAS A GRAY RAT!
Uh huh. A rat the size of a squirrel. Ratty tail, not puffy squirrel tail. This is the second time I have been fooled by a rat impersonating a squirrel. The first time was many years ago on the way to Lower Basementia one morning. That one was up on a power line, running along like a baby squirrel without a puffy tail. It was a bit disconcerting to discover a rat running to and fro between the Subway/Save-A-Lot building and my soda-providing Voice of the Village. I was trying to put that out of my mind when I saw the snake/lamprey. It takes a special kind of people to settle Hillmomba.
A land where rats are the new squirrels, and toothy aquatic parasites sway like charmed cobras.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Jeepers, Creeper! Why'd Ya Crowd Me Like a Bleeper?
Just what I needed, here in the summer doldrums of Hillmomba, maintaining an even keel, recuperating from my unfortunate hospitalization, with nothing interesting to write about...
My creative well has been primed. My even keel has been thrown off-KEELter. All it took was a trip to Save-A-Lot at noontime. I got a late start. It's never a good idea to hit town at the same time 50 churches let out. Because those church people are all headed for fast food, or headed for the grocery store. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's destinations.
No sooner was I in the door than they caught up to me. All I had done was grabbed a cart and pushed it three cart-wheel rotations to the banana table. But there they were on my heels: Creeper and her Spawn. I grabbed the greenest bananas I could find and set them in my cart. Moved on to the potatoes. They looked sucky. Save-A-Lot never has good potatoes, unless I'm in the mood for some Yukon Rose. But I was not. I needed three bakers for tonight's steak-grilling. Only two were invited into my cart, because, perhaps you did not catch it the first time, the potatoes looked sucky. Besides, Creeper and Spawn were closing in.
Same thing happened at the bagged lettuce and the tomatoes and the strawberries. "Mom! Mom! Tomatoes, Mom! Get tomatoes! Five! It says five on the list! Get five tomatoes! Yes! The list says five!" I don't blame Spawn, really. He was a thin blondish lad around nine years old. He was just being a kid. Not running willy-nilly through the store, but helping his mom shop. Very vocally. And sometimes getting too close for the liking of Hillmomban citizens and their personal space bubble. I don't blame the kid. Kids are not adults, and don't act like adults. Perhaps Spawn was medicated. Or needed to be medicated. Maybe he was on the spectrum and needed some coping skills to help him move toward the mainstream. He was not grabbing things and being a brat. He was helping his mom shop.
No matter where I stopped, or where I veered off in an attempt to lose them, Creeper and Spawn stuck to me like Farmer H on Auction Meat. No aisle was too random or remote. You'd think they had tossed a grappling hook at my cart in an effort to have me pull them along my path. By the time I reached the back meat aisle, they were still directly behind me. I couldn't move forward because a guy was stopped at the hamburger, and I couldn't go back to look at pork steaks because Creeper and Spawn were on my heels like a new-shoe blister. When that guy moseyed along, I got out of that trap and looped back around the frozen fish stand-alone open-topped bin, and got back in line at the meat counter. Right behind Creeper. I saw that she had put Spawn in the cart-seat, and parked him just ahead between the frozen fish and the sausage-biscuit glass case. His legs dangled almost to the floor. He was deftly pulling himself back in her direction with his right hand on the metal-topped glass rail of the frozen fish bin, and his left hand waving that list. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Don't forget the chips! Chips are on the list!"
Creeper tired of the chopped meat, and looped around behind me (the better to creep, my dear, because it's really hard to creep when you're in front of somebody who's watching you) to look at the chicken. I forged ahead. Spawn saw me coming his way. He pulled his cart over against the fish bin and watched me pass, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I do command a bit of awe with children. No doubt due to my teaching persona that never quite fades. No sooner was I past Spawn than he started his cry again. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!"
I was able to make a break for it. I snagged some Salt and Pepper Chips for The Pony. Then some buns and bread. And some individual packets of Soft Batch Cookies that The Pony had requested. I got in line and started putting my stuff on the conveyor. Let the record show that three checkers were open. Let the record also show that Creeper got behind ME in line. Not her cart. Creeper. We could have rubbed elbows. I was behind my own cart, putting things out from the kid-seat. I still had quite a bit to go. BUT CREEPER WAS PUTTING HER OWN ITEMS ON THE BELT. Without even a divider. Her stuff started to pass under my left elbow. Creeper stuck out her arm, nearly jostling me, to pull it back. I used that little bit of space to put out my bananas and strawberries and tomatoes and potatoes. First in the cart, last out of the cart. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!"
The checker, a man, gave Creeper a hard look. She leaned over and grabbed the divider while I was running my debit card through the machine. Kind of late. All my stuff was accounted for now. As Creeper crept closer, perhaps to take a gawk at my PIN as I punched it in...I got a whiff of Creeper breath.
It was obvious that gal had come to the store not from church, but directly from her job at a brewery, after falling into a vat and remaining trapped for the first seven hours of her shift.
I think, perhaps, Spawn's behavior was a function of his upbringing. I don't know which of them I would have preferred to drive home.
My creative well has been primed. My even keel has been thrown off-KEELter. All it took was a trip to Save-A-Lot at noontime. I got a late start. It's never a good idea to hit town at the same time 50 churches let out. Because those church people are all headed for fast food, or headed for the grocery store. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's destinations.
No sooner was I in the door than they caught up to me. All I had done was grabbed a cart and pushed it three cart-wheel rotations to the banana table. But there they were on my heels: Creeper and her Spawn. I grabbed the greenest bananas I could find and set them in my cart. Moved on to the potatoes. They looked sucky. Save-A-Lot never has good potatoes, unless I'm in the mood for some Yukon Rose. But I was not. I needed three bakers for tonight's steak-grilling. Only two were invited into my cart, because, perhaps you did not catch it the first time, the potatoes looked sucky. Besides, Creeper and Spawn were closing in.
Same thing happened at the bagged lettuce and the tomatoes and the strawberries. "Mom! Mom! Tomatoes, Mom! Get tomatoes! Five! It says five on the list! Get five tomatoes! Yes! The list says five!" I don't blame Spawn, really. He was a thin blondish lad around nine years old. He was just being a kid. Not running willy-nilly through the store, but helping his mom shop. Very vocally. And sometimes getting too close for the liking of Hillmomban citizens and their personal space bubble. I don't blame the kid. Kids are not adults, and don't act like adults. Perhaps Spawn was medicated. Or needed to be medicated. Maybe he was on the spectrum and needed some coping skills to help him move toward the mainstream. He was not grabbing things and being a brat. He was helping his mom shop.
No matter where I stopped, or where I veered off in an attempt to lose them, Creeper and Spawn stuck to me like Farmer H on Auction Meat. No aisle was too random or remote. You'd think they had tossed a grappling hook at my cart in an effort to have me pull them along my path. By the time I reached the back meat aisle, they were still directly behind me. I couldn't move forward because a guy was stopped at the hamburger, and I couldn't go back to look at pork steaks because Creeper and Spawn were on my heels like a new-shoe blister. When that guy moseyed along, I got out of that trap and looped back around the frozen fish stand-alone open-topped bin, and got back in line at the meat counter. Right behind Creeper. I saw that she had put Spawn in the cart-seat, and parked him just ahead between the frozen fish and the sausage-biscuit glass case. His legs dangled almost to the floor. He was deftly pulling himself back in her direction with his right hand on the metal-topped glass rail of the frozen fish bin, and his left hand waving that list. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Don't forget the chips! Chips are on the list!"
Creeper tired of the chopped meat, and looped around behind me (the better to creep, my dear, because it's really hard to creep when you're in front of somebody who's watching you) to look at the chicken. I forged ahead. Spawn saw me coming his way. He pulled his cart over against the fish bin and watched me pass, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I do command a bit of awe with children. No doubt due to my teaching persona that never quite fades. No sooner was I past Spawn than he started his cry again. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!"
I was able to make a break for it. I snagged some Salt and Pepper Chips for The Pony. Then some buns and bread. And some individual packets of Soft Batch Cookies that The Pony had requested. I got in line and started putting my stuff on the conveyor. Let the record show that three checkers were open. Let the record also show that Creeper got behind ME in line. Not her cart. Creeper. We could have rubbed elbows. I was behind my own cart, putting things out from the kid-seat. I still had quite a bit to go. BUT CREEPER WAS PUTTING HER OWN ITEMS ON THE BELT. Without even a divider. Her stuff started to pass under my left elbow. Creeper stuck out her arm, nearly jostling me, to pull it back. I used that little bit of space to put out my bananas and strawberries and tomatoes and potatoes. First in the cart, last out of the cart. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!"
The checker, a man, gave Creeper a hard look. She leaned over and grabbed the divider while I was running my debit card through the machine. Kind of late. All my stuff was accounted for now. As Creeper crept closer, perhaps to take a gawk at my PIN as I punched it in...I got a whiff of Creeper breath.
It was obvious that gal had come to the store not from church, but directly from her job at a brewery, after falling into a vat and remaining trapped for the first seven hours of her shift.
I think, perhaps, Spawn's behavior was a function of his upbringing. I don't know which of them I would have preferred to drive home.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
That's Porchway Robbery!
Yesterday, I had some kitchen leftovers to throw off the back deck. The outdoors is just one big garbage dump for Hillmombans, you know. I had the tough outer layer and some skin from an onion, and some fat-scrapings from the bottom of a pan that had caught the grease from pork steaks on a rack as I warmed them up in the oven. The scrapings were for my sweet, sweet Juno, and the onion was for the chickens to peck at in the back yard.
I grabbed the paper plate with the blobs of grease, and the other with the onion remnants, and stepped out the kitchen door. I heard the thump of a sweet, sweet tail in Juno's doghouse. "Here, you go, Sweetie." I dropped the grease plate beside her abode, and stepped over to the rail to fling the onions. When I turned back around, ANN was licking the grease plate!
Oh, horror of horrors! My sweet, sweet Juno went treatless because that doggone Ann the black shepherd had been squatting in Juno's house again. It's dark in there. You look in and see a black nose, and automatically assume it's Juno in her rightful home.
Poor Ann. She's not the brightest crayon in the box. She'd take a lick, the plate would slide across the boards, and she'd follow and take another lick. She did that until the plate lodged between my feet as I stood scolding her for taking Juno's house. The upbraiding did not seem to affect her appetite. I sighed and picked up the empty plate.
At least my sweet, sweet Juno would have known to put a paw on that plate to hold it while she licked.
I grabbed the paper plate with the blobs of grease, and the other with the onion remnants, and stepped out the kitchen door. I heard the thump of a sweet, sweet tail in Juno's doghouse. "Here, you go, Sweetie." I dropped the grease plate beside her abode, and stepped over to the rail to fling the onions. When I turned back around, ANN was licking the grease plate!
Oh, horror of horrors! My sweet, sweet Juno went treatless because that doggone Ann the black shepherd had been squatting in Juno's house again. It's dark in there. You look in and see a black nose, and automatically assume it's Juno in her rightful home.
Poor Ann. She's not the brightest crayon in the box. She'd take a lick, the plate would slide across the boards, and she'd follow and take another lick. She did that until the plate lodged between my feet as I stood scolding her for taking Juno's house. The upbraiding did not seem to affect her appetite. I sighed and picked up the empty plate.
At least my sweet, sweet Juno would have known to put a paw on that plate to hold it while she licked.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Who Knows What Hardships Lurk In The Lives Of Kids? The Mama Knows.
Today is the last Friday of the month. You know what that means. ROAD TRIP! Wait. That was the Deltas of Animal House, after an inspiring speech by Bluto, when Dean Wormer put them on double-secret probation and tried to kick them out of Faber College because of low grade point averages, including a 0.0, and told Flounder that "Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son."
No, around here, Last Friday is the day Mrs. Hillbilly Mom picks up her mother and takes her for a ride as she pays her bills. It is also the day that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom used to deposit a pittance into her #1 son's checking account so he had money to buy groceries because his meal plan was not fitting his needs. With #1 working hard for his money this summer, that pittance was stopped. Seriously. The kid thought he was swingin' the world by the tail (which reminds me of one of my favorite ol' twangy country tunes, "Before I Met You," by Dolly Parton and Porter Waggoner, so here it is if you have 1:21 to spare).
So today was kind of bittersweet, my boy out on his own in the working world. I grew nostalgic for the times he used to need me. And I put some money in his checking account. Just because.
Mom and I were just starting back towards Hillmomba, after having a sit-down lunch, when the black cloud above opened up and pelted us with a step of the water cycle. I parked on the lot of Lowe's and sent #1 a text. "Do you want the good news or bad news first?" Like me, he chose the bad news.
"You can't ask me for gas money anymore."
"Why not?"
"That's the good news. I put money in your account."
"You are a lifesaver! I was going to have to scrounge through the weekend, until I get my next paycheck. Not that I am a frivolous spender."
"I know you are thrifty."
"I have to pay rent again this weekend. I get paid on the 15th."
Oh, dear. My poor boy. I know what his first paycheck was. It was only for two weeks' work. Out of that, he will now have paid rent twice, and sent me $500 for money I advanced him until payday. That took the entire paycheck! So he has had his stipend from Missouri Boys State, and his pay from the wedding photography to live on since the last week of May. I'm surprised he hasn't been selling his plasma. I suppose he was too proud to ask for another advance from me.
There was a reason I felt the need to put money in his account. A mama knows.
No, around here, Last Friday is the day Mrs. Hillbilly Mom picks up her mother and takes her for a ride as she pays her bills. It is also the day that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom used to deposit a pittance into her #1 son's checking account so he had money to buy groceries because his meal plan was not fitting his needs. With #1 working hard for his money this summer, that pittance was stopped. Seriously. The kid thought he was swingin' the world by the tail (which reminds me of one of my favorite ol' twangy country tunes, "Before I Met You," by Dolly Parton and Porter Waggoner, so here it is if you have 1:21 to spare).
So today was kind of bittersweet, my boy out on his own in the working world. I grew nostalgic for the times he used to need me. And I put some money in his checking account. Just because.
Mom and I were just starting back towards Hillmomba, after having a sit-down lunch, when the black cloud above opened up and pelted us with a step of the water cycle. I parked on the lot of Lowe's and sent #1 a text. "Do you want the good news or bad news first?" Like me, he chose the bad news.
"You can't ask me for gas money anymore."
"Why not?"
"That's the good news. I put money in your account."
"You are a lifesaver! I was going to have to scrounge through the weekend, until I get my next paycheck. Not that I am a frivolous spender."
"I know you are thrifty."
"I have to pay rent again this weekend. I get paid on the 15th."
Oh, dear. My poor boy. I know what his first paycheck was. It was only for two weeks' work. Out of that, he will now have paid rent twice, and sent me $500 for money I advanced him until payday. That took the entire paycheck! So he has had his stipend from Missouri Boys State, and his pay from the wedding photography to live on since the last week of May. I'm surprised he hasn't been selling his plasma. I suppose he was too proud to ask for another advance from me.
There was a reason I felt the need to put money in his account. A mama knows.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Farmer H Held The Key
I am still recovering from my exhausting day of being poked and prodded by medical professionals yesterday. I swear, I took off and put on my clothes more times than a two-dollar hooker on half price night.
The doctor's office that we finally found nowhere near the professional building beside the hospital was, perhaps, hard to find on purpose. The security there would have put Fort Knox to shame. I didn't notice what a fortress it was at first. After all, we walked right on in unmolested. That part came later, and only for me.
Well. We walked right on in after I climbed out of T-Hoe and onto a giant pile of mulch, then tried to walk along its surface that curved like the side of a whale, until I got to the end by the pavement. Farmer H was SO helpful. He had, after all, parked in the spot closest to the door. Then he stood at the butt-end of T-Hoe, telling me how to walk on the side of that wood-chip whale. "Step down beside it, on the blacktop." Easy for him to say. He does not grasp the concept of center of gravity. I, on the other hand, being a teacher of physics, know that the center of gravity must be over the base of support. If I had stepped down and tried to walk in that narrow space, I would have wiped T-Hoe's side clean of all country dust with my black pants. No way could I tilt my body to the side, over the mulch, while stepping my feet on the pavement. There was about six inches of pavement between the mulch curb and T-Hoe. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not six-inches slim.
Nor did Farmer H offer to hold my purse while I put a hand on T-Hoe to steady myself, or offer me his hand for balance. He just stood and watched. Thank the Gummi Mary, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is as surefooted as an Alaskan mountain goat.
We walked through a glass door into a glass vestibule, then through another glass door into the waiting room. I handed over my pre-completed eight pages of new patient info, then had a seat on one of four chairs near the vestibule. Farmer H was already sitting. A potted tree separated us, and we each had an empty chair on our far sides.
The thing with driving halfway across the country to get to your doctor is that your blood pressure medicine starts to take effect as soon as you arrive. Farmer H asked the receptionist if there was a restroom he could use. Let the record show that this physician might be referred to most folks in Hillmomba as a lady-doctor. So the restroom was in the inner sanctum, not out in the waiting area. The receptionist pointed Farmer H to a solid wooden door with a keypad near the handle. "Just push in 1-2-3-4, then STAR." Let the record also show that is not the actual code, because we can't have readers of this anonymous blog driving to lady-doctors all over the bi-state area, punching in security codes to use their toilet.
Farmer H returned and sat on his side of the potted tree. An older lady pulling an oxygen tank came through both glass doors and sat next to him. She apparently had a standing appointment for treatment behind the solid wooden door with a keypad that was between her and the reception desk. The main part of the waiting room was fairly full, with a TV going, and several patients and their accompaniers in various stages of coming and going.
A young lady came through the outer glass door, into the vestibule, and grabbed the handle to the inner glass door. That's when I found out that building was locked up tighter than my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel's cabinets full of rulers, scissors, and giant yellow glue sticks. The young lady almost yanked her arm out of the socket trying to get in. We sat, the three of us near the vestibule, unable to help, yet watching in horror. Young Lady tried to get through a solid wooden door that went from the vestibule back into the inner sanctum. Nope. LOCKED UP! She tried the glass door again. Just in case it had unlocked itself. We looked nervously toward the receptionist. She was on the phone. The old lady yelled, "Push 1-2-3-4, then STAR! Push the first four numbers, then STAR!" Of course Young Lady could not quite hear through all that glass. She peered in. Old Lady yelled louder. Young Lady went back to try that at the keypad on the wooden door. Nope. Must have been a special code for that one.
Old Lady turned to the receptionist. "Will you please let her in?"
"Oh. Sorry. I was on the phone." She must have hit a buzzer. But Young Lady was still trying to break into the inner sanctum by yanking on the lever handle of the wooden door. Farmer H jumped up and pushed open the glass door.
"Here. You can get in now."
He must have won over that Young Lady, because after I came out of my poking and prodding session, Farmer H reported that Young Lady had asked for his help again. Seems that Old Lady, who happened to be there with Young Lady, who must have dropped her off at the door and not made her pull that oxygen tank over a whale-shaped hump of mulch, had been called back into the treatment room. Young Lady started playing a game on her phone. She stopped.
"I'm stuck. I don't know this one. Can you help me?"
Farmer H is not a gamer, but he IS helpful to strangers. "I looked at her phone. There was a man's face, then the plus sign, then a book. I told her, 'It's Facebook. Face. Book.' And she said, 'Oh, I NEVER would have gotten that one.'" Let the record show that Farmer H is perhaps the last person on Earth you would ever want to be on your team to play a game like that.
Let the record show that Farmer H is now the NEXT-TO-LAST person on Earth you would want on your team.
The doctor's office that we finally found nowhere near the professional building beside the hospital was, perhaps, hard to find on purpose. The security there would have put Fort Knox to shame. I didn't notice what a fortress it was at first. After all, we walked right on in unmolested. That part came later, and only for me.
Well. We walked right on in after I climbed out of T-Hoe and onto a giant pile of mulch, then tried to walk along its surface that curved like the side of a whale, until I got to the end by the pavement. Farmer H was SO helpful. He had, after all, parked in the spot closest to the door. Then he stood at the butt-end of T-Hoe, telling me how to walk on the side of that wood-chip whale. "Step down beside it, on the blacktop." Easy for him to say. He does not grasp the concept of center of gravity. I, on the other hand, being a teacher of physics, know that the center of gravity must be over the base of support. If I had stepped down and tried to walk in that narrow space, I would have wiped T-Hoe's side clean of all country dust with my black pants. No way could I tilt my body to the side, over the mulch, while stepping my feet on the pavement. There was about six inches of pavement between the mulch curb and T-Hoe. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not six-inches slim.
Nor did Farmer H offer to hold my purse while I put a hand on T-Hoe to steady myself, or offer me his hand for balance. He just stood and watched. Thank the Gummi Mary, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is as surefooted as an Alaskan mountain goat.
We walked through a glass door into a glass vestibule, then through another glass door into the waiting room. I handed over my pre-completed eight pages of new patient info, then had a seat on one of four chairs near the vestibule. Farmer H was already sitting. A potted tree separated us, and we each had an empty chair on our far sides.
The thing with driving halfway across the country to get to your doctor is that your blood pressure medicine starts to take effect as soon as you arrive. Farmer H asked the receptionist if there was a restroom he could use. Let the record show that this physician might be referred to most folks in Hillmomba as a lady-doctor. So the restroom was in the inner sanctum, not out in the waiting area. The receptionist pointed Farmer H to a solid wooden door with a keypad near the handle. "Just push in 1-2-3-4, then STAR." Let the record also show that is not the actual code, because we can't have readers of this anonymous blog driving to lady-doctors all over the bi-state area, punching in security codes to use their toilet.
Farmer H returned and sat on his side of the potted tree. An older lady pulling an oxygen tank came through both glass doors and sat next to him. She apparently had a standing appointment for treatment behind the solid wooden door with a keypad that was between her and the reception desk. The main part of the waiting room was fairly full, with a TV going, and several patients and their accompaniers in various stages of coming and going.
A young lady came through the outer glass door, into the vestibule, and grabbed the handle to the inner glass door. That's when I found out that building was locked up tighter than my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel's cabinets full of rulers, scissors, and giant yellow glue sticks. The young lady almost yanked her arm out of the socket trying to get in. We sat, the three of us near the vestibule, unable to help, yet watching in horror. Young Lady tried to get through a solid wooden door that went from the vestibule back into the inner sanctum. Nope. LOCKED UP! She tried the glass door again. Just in case it had unlocked itself. We looked nervously toward the receptionist. She was on the phone. The old lady yelled, "Push 1-2-3-4, then STAR! Push the first four numbers, then STAR!" Of course Young Lady could not quite hear through all that glass. She peered in. Old Lady yelled louder. Young Lady went back to try that at the keypad on the wooden door. Nope. Must have been a special code for that one.
Old Lady turned to the receptionist. "Will you please let her in?"
"Oh. Sorry. I was on the phone." She must have hit a buzzer. But Young Lady was still trying to break into the inner sanctum by yanking on the lever handle of the wooden door. Farmer H jumped up and pushed open the glass door.
"Here. You can get in now."
He must have won over that Young Lady, because after I came out of my poking and prodding session, Farmer H reported that Young Lady had asked for his help again. Seems that Old Lady, who happened to be there with Young Lady, who must have dropped her off at the door and not made her pull that oxygen tank over a whale-shaped hump of mulch, had been called back into the treatment room. Young Lady started playing a game on her phone. She stopped.
"I'm stuck. I don't know this one. Can you help me?"
Farmer H is not a gamer, but he IS helpful to strangers. "I looked at her phone. There was a man's face, then the plus sign, then a book. I told her, 'It's Facebook. Face. Book.' And she said, 'Oh, I NEVER would have gotten that one.'" Let the record show that Farmer H is perhaps the last person on Earth you would ever want to be on your team to play a game like that.
Let the record show that Farmer H is now the NEXT-TO-LAST person on Earth you would want on your team.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Almost Sets A Precedent For Missouri
Today I went to a city doctor. According to my primary care provider, there are no doctors in Hillmomba who do the same work this doctor does. I cry shenanigans! What he meant was, perhaps, that no doctors in his network in Hillmomba do this job.
Anyhoo, there I was, not exactly layin' back in a satin dress, but certainly in a room where you do what you don't confess. Oh, what I would have given for a satin dress! Or any dress.
After the exam, the nurse took me to the conference room. "Are you here with anyone? Do you want them to come in?"
HM: "Yes. My husband. His name is Farmer H."
Nurse: "Okay. I'll go get him."
I heard her go out and call "Farmer H." The next thing I knew, I was like a display in a living history exhibit. A short, rotund lady (SRL) waddled to the door. She looked at me. She looked down the hall. She said, "Room One? There's somebody already in here."
Nurse: "I know. And I brought you in."
The short, rotund lady came back to look again. "I don't think I belong in here."
HM: "No. This is not my husband."
Nurse: "Well, what is your name?"
SRL: "Charmer Rach."
Nurse: "Oh! I called for Farmer H!"
Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I was certainly not prepared this afternoon to deal with my new wife.
Anyhoo, there I was, not exactly layin' back in a satin dress, but certainly in a room where you do what you don't confess. Oh, what I would have given for a satin dress! Or any dress.
After the exam, the nurse took me to the conference room. "Are you here with anyone? Do you want them to come in?"
HM: "Yes. My husband. His name is Farmer H."
Nurse: "Okay. I'll go get him."
I heard her go out and call "Farmer H." The next thing I knew, I was like a display in a living history exhibit. A short, rotund lady (SRL) waddled to the door. She looked at me. She looked down the hall. She said, "Room One? There's somebody already in here."
Nurse: "I know. And I brought you in."
The short, rotund lady came back to look again. "I don't think I belong in here."
HM: "No. This is not my husband."
Nurse: "Well, what is your name?"
SRL: "Charmer Rach."
Nurse: "Oh! I called for Farmer H!"
Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I was certainly not prepared this afternoon to deal with my new wife.
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