Letting Nature Take Its Course

I'm a little behind tonight. Heh, heh! You know what I said!

The reason I'm a little behind (heh, heh, I just can't do that enough) is because I have not felt the least bit funny since 11:48 this morning. I know the precise time, because I saw it on the microwave. The reason I haven't felt funny had nothing to do with the microwave, though.

When I left for town, Farmer H was heading outside to fiddle about with his themed shacks and Goodwill swag and wait on HOS to come down and help him load some free bricks to finish the sidewalk. Which I didn't know was unfinished, it having been there for nigh on 19 years. The dogs must have followed Farmer H, because they did not come to the side porch to see me off. When I returned two hours later, I saw them run across the yard to the house.

Farmer H came to the garage to carry in two bags of groceries, two packs of strawberry water, a carton of Diet Mountain Dew, and an 8-pack of squatty bottles of Diet Coke. I gathered my purse and 44 oz Diet Coke, and closed T-Hoe's rear hatch and the garage door. I stepped through the people door to pet my dogs. Copper the neighbor dog barely moved off the sidewalk to allow me passage. I hugged and patted my Sweet, Sweet Juno, because she is bigger, and shoulders her way in front of Jack, who prances around like a circus dog vying for attention.

Today, he did not. He stood by the metal chair I use to put groceries on. I went to pat and hug him, and he did not stand on his hind legs and put his front paws on my shoulders, nor try to lick my teeth. In fact, he hung back a little bit. That's when I saw that he was quivering. Shaking. Like a can of paint being mixed at Lowe's. His eyes were sad. I felt him to see if he was wet, in case maybe he'd been swimming in the creek or fish pond. The temp was 38 degrees according to T-Hoe.

Jack was not wet. He was also not interested in the handful of cat kibble I laid in front of him. He sniffed it. Then he headed around the porch toward the front of the house. He had trouble walking, he was shaking so hard. Then he took off at a slow lope, his hindquarters bobbing to and fro from the shaking.

I was worried. I voiced my concern as I put away Save A Lot groceries. Farmer H, from the La-Z-Boy, said he could see Jack in the front yard. "He'll be fine. He's taking a poop. Now he's vomiting."

"He shouldn't shake like that. I wonder if he's having a seizure. Maybe he got into some poison."

"Nah. They was with me. All three of them dogs. We went up to HOS's with the Gator. They was runnin' through the woods."

"I bet that crazy stick man put out poison."

"HM, they didn't go over there. They was on HOS's land. They went down by the creek, then came back. Jack was fine. He was sniffin' HOS's wife's little dog's butt, and it was sniffin' his butt. He didn't eat anything. Maybe he got snake bit. We came back not long before you got home. I came in the house, and the dogs run out in the trees by the sinkhole. Then they came back. Maybe Jack eat a bad frog. They can have poison on them."

"Maybe. Our poodle Buster got stung by a scorpion at my mom's house. He shook his head and threw snot all over and vomited. But his lip swelled up real big."

"They can get snake bit. Or he probably ate something."

"Oh, no! I gave them bread for their snack last night. A couple bones, and a lot of bread. Jack only had the back bone. Not the pointy ribs part, or the long thigh. But it was a lot of bread. I tore his up for him. Maybe he's clogged up with bread and it's my fault!"

"I'm pretty sure that's what killed old Longhorn the goat. I have him a bunch of bread, and the next day he was dead."

"You're not helping! There's something about heelers and how big their chest is. I think they can twist their gut if they're too energetic after eating. Maybe Jack ate his food this morning and then took off running with you and the Gator."

Farmer H went out on the back porch. "No. Both of em's pan of food is still there. They haven't touched it."

"Jack had something white in the front yard this morning. It was oval. Like a little deflated volleyball. He came running from your shacks with it, and then Copper took it away from him. I don't know what it was."

"I'll go look at him and see if he's got any bites on him."

When Farmer H came back, it was not good news. "I found Jack under my barbershop. He won't come out. He's still shaking and vomiting white foam. He'll look at me, but he won't move. I tried poking him with a stick, but he won't move."

"I wonder if I should take him to the vet."

"HM, I can't get him out from under the barber shop. I don't know HOW I'll get him out if he dies under there..."

"STOP! Don't talk about that! Now he's under the shack and I think I might have killed him, and you're going off to help #1 move out of his house. So you'll be gone, and I'll be here worried about him, and not able to do anything."

"Yeah. I had to lay down on the ground to even see him under there. I'll call HOS and tell him to come check. Then he can call you to let you know."

"I don't want anything to happen to Jack!"

"HM, there's nothing we can do. Animals have a way of healin' theirself, or going off to die. We'll get you another dog."

"But I want JACK! You act like he's already dead!"

"No, I'm not saying that."

"I like him way more than I though I would. Now I'm used to having him."

"Yeah. Jack's a pretty good dog. I'll have HOS come down. I won't be home until around 10:00 tonight."

Sooo...HOS was supposed to come down around 3:00. I didn't hear anything from him. I went out to walk at 4:45. I didn't see Jack anywhere. Copper was sitting in the middle of the front field looking concerned. Juno came to the side porch, but her romping was subdued. She trotted out to the driveway with me for my walk, and gave Copper a half-hearted growl when he approached. While I walked, Juno went to the front yard, just in front of the decrepit picket fence. She sat looking toward the Little Barbershop of Horrors. I heard a whimper from her or Copper.

When I finished my six laps, I went out into the front yard to look for what Jack had been playing with this morning. It was a white face mask like the people in China wore during the bird flu outbreak. You know, one of those cupped paper face masks, with a rubber band on it. I guess maybe people use those when they spray paint, too. Or maybe insecticide, or work with insulation.

I gave Juno her porch snack. Jack never appeared. I couldn't see any hint of his white fur under the edge of the Little Barbershop of Horrors. I called Farmer H to ask if the reason I hadn't heard from HOS was because it was bad news. No, he said. HOS must have not come down yet. He'd call him. Then I didn't want to know, just in case Jack was dead under the shack. A couple hours later, Farmer H called and said that HOS came down, but couldn't find Jack anywhere. He was not under the Little Barbershop of Horrors any more.

So...the good news was that Jack had moved, but the bad news was that we didn't know why, and that he was now missing.

At 10:40, Farmer H got home. He said he found Jack in the chicken house, and that he came out for a minute. Farmer H looked him over and didn't see anything wrong. Jack's belly wasn't bloated or hard. He didn't act like he felt good, but he wasn't shaking any more.

We'll see how he feels tomorrow.

So Nice He Did It Twice

Here's an artifact from the storm that blew through here Tuesday night. The one that spawned a tornado that took two lives and did a lot of damage 50 miles from the Mansion.

We got off easy with this one. Didn't even lose power. I heard the stuff clanging around on the porch while I was in the basement watching TV in the wee hours. Funny how the wind flipped this one chair, leaving the other in its place, and the lighter table between them untouched.

Good thing the #1 Son is off at college town. That's his room there. He could have woken up sitting in a new chair in his bedroom, had the wind swirled just right. But it didn't. Not even any tree limbs down this time. You never know.

One thing I do know is that Farmer H is much more predictable than storm winds. He didn't even know the chair was flipped, though he has gone out the front door two nights to feed the animals. AND his Trailblazer is parked just behind that half-log that has our name carved in it on the other side. When I pointed it out while snacking the dogs, Farmer H rushed (!) to right the chair.

"Wait a minute! I was going to get a picture of that when the dogs are done eating."

"I can get you a picture."

"Don't get the license plates in there!"

"HM. I'm not stupid."

"Send it to my email. When you text it, I have to wait until I go to town so I have enough reception to move it to my email, so I can put it on my computer."

While we were sitting inside discussing the events of the day, (me talking and him watching a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show), I heard the two pictures arrive on my phone.

"Okay. That would be the pictures received in my email."

I looked at the phone, just to be sure. Yep. Two new emails from Farmer H. When I went downstairs later and saved them to New Delly, I saw that Farmer H is still Farmer H.

He had sent me the exact same picture twice.

Another Oddity From The Hillbilly Family Kin

Last night, Farmer H plopped himself on the front porch steps around 5:00. I was in the middle of making his supper, and while it heated, I sat in the La-Z-Boy, with a clear view outside. I also heard Farmer H talking. At first, I thought maybe he was conversing with Jack and my Sweet, Sweet Juno. Sometimes he does that, when I'm in earshot. Probably so he might trick me into thinking he's a nice guy. I could see Jack every now and then, putting his front feet on a step and looking at Farmer H.

Farmer H talked so much, with a give and take like a conversation, that I thought maybe HOS had stopped by, or our neighbor had walked over to visit. But I didn't hear any other voice. Then I thought maybe he was talking to the #1 Son on the phone. He wasn't holding it to his ear. But I think some of these newfangled gargets work without doing that.

He finally came into the house (by turning the front door knob that STILL hasn't been fixed) and said he'd been talking to his brother. Farmer H is a middle child. His older brother, Leroy, passed away about 10 years ago. His name was actually Something Something Leroy Lastname, but he went by Leroy. His first name is the same as The Pony's given name, which was the name of Farmer H's dad. The second name is one that I've never heard used as a name before, but rather something that somebody might throw three coins in. I don't know where Leroy came from, but that's all anybody ever called him. Even people at Newmentia who had know Farmer H's family referred to him as Leroy.

The brother Farmer H was talking to on the phone is the youngest. I've only met him once, when he came to visit at my $17,000 house in town, back when the #1 Son was a toddler. He lived in Las Vegas for a long time, working at one of the casinos. Circus Circus, I think. No. He wasn't a showgirl or anything. He worked in security. Now he's driving a truck. Farmer H has put in standing orders with Bro to be notified when he goes through Missouri. He figures he can adjust his newly-reduced work schedule to meet Bro, and catch up on old times.

Last night, Bro was in Illinois. He said he'd be coming through Missouri late at night, but with the stormy weather and Farmer H's work week, a meeting at this time was not feasible. They'll make a connection, though. Bro sent Farmer H a picture. I should probably put it on my more-trafficked blog, since it goes along with a running theme I have over there. But I don't want too much identifying info out there.

Here's the picture:

I know you can't see it very well here. I can enlarge it on my phone. That sign is exit marker 149, saying that it's one mile to Le Roy, Illinois. That oval above it is a cloud. As Bro told Farmer H in the text, "Hello, Leroy."

Batten Down The Hatches

Storms are rolling in as I type (it's currently 5:05 p.m.), so I don't have time to be long-winded tonight. I am sitting in Farmer H's La-Z-Boy while I warm his supper in the oven, looking out the front window at dark skies and lightning. A situation to which I was ignorant of only one short hour ago.

I was frittering away my retirement time in my dark basement lair, getting ready to go upstairs for my walk, when Farmer H called to warm me of a tornado watch, and severe thunderstorms headed right at me.

"So I guess my walk is out of the question tonight?"

"Well...unless you can walk pretty fast if a tornado comes at you."

"Do you think I should go up and get my purse?" Let the record show that I was mostly concerned about my GAMBLING purse, chock full of expendable cash for our upcoming Oklahoma casino trip with my sister the ex-mayor's wife and the ex-mayor himself.

"It probably wouldn't hurt."

I normally take the purses, my prescription medicine, and when I was working, my teacher bag, down to the basement for safekeeping during tornado watches and warnings. Of course, I, myself, was safely ensconced in the basement when Farmer H called, but went traipsing upstairs to look outside. Huh. Not even all that overcast. The wind was nonexistent, unlike the swirling gales this morning when I was in town. I could probably squeeze in that walk...

So...I went outside, greeted my whimpering fleabags, and hit the gravel. Juno accompanied me partway. She usually sits in the front yard watching. I think she was trying to tell me to abandon this folly and get inside. So she could go back to her house. Copper came over to romp. Jack trotted beside me for a while before playing. I finished all six laps, even though at the end, a cool breeze sprung up. The air was thick with humidity. I went inside to cut up some of Saturday's Casey's pizza for the dogs' snack. None for Copper.

Juno didn't dawdle after eating. A quick nudge at my leg for a pat, then she took off toward the goat pen. That's unusual. Maybe she was headed for the stacked hay bales in the ramshackle shed beside where Farmer H parks his Gator. Even Billy the Goat and Barry the mini pony were in their wooden shed. The turkey, though, was right in front of me by the porch. He's normally up in the trees by now. Maybe those animals know something!

Anyhoo...I'm off of here for a while. Gotta take my valuables downstairs. Something tells me I might have company down there tonight...

Farmer H Is Now Available For Hire, For All Your Landscaping Needs

With Farmer H working only three days a week, and lately going in on Monday and Friday mornings as well, with plans to take more time off in the future...it's no wonder that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can't keep track of the days. That's the one thing I miss about work. The routine. Looking forward to Friday. Now I look forward to Tuesday. Or half of Monday.

I pretty much try to keep to myself. Let Farmer H roam around the grounds, building and hoarding and tearing up the driveway and not fixing the front door knob. I did the Devil's Playground shopping on Friday, and had just finished putting stuff away when he arrived home after a half-day. You can't imagine how happy I was to hear that he was going to the auction that evening.

Saturday was kind of yucky, with clouds and sprinkles. Farmer H stayed inside the Mansion for a good portion of the day, alternating between NASCAR and ROOTS on the TV. He picked up Casey's pizza for supper, and I snagged a couple pieces and practically ran down the basement stairs to avoid him. It was worth the wear and tear on my knees. Once I go subterranean, I rarely come back up until the wee hours, when Farmer H is already snoozing. It makes me no nevermind what he's up to while I'm below. Sometimes, if he decides to go somewhere, he'll holler down to me. A lot of times, he goes over to the BARn without informing me. And sometimes, he tosses supper scraps out on the porch for the dogs, or sticks his head out and hollers at them to be quiet. The slamming door doesn't make me go looking for him.

Sunday, as I returned home with my 44 oz Diet Coke, something caught my eye as I turned in the driveway. Something was different. Up by the carport. What in tarnation WAS that?

Sweet Gummi Mary! WHATEVER it was, it was ugly. U-G-L-Y, it didn't have no alibi. UGLY! It looked like a wheelbarrow that was turned over to keep the rain out of it (or to protect the fresh dirt from our old dog Grizzly's grave so the other mutts didn't dig him up back then), with an old soggy cardboard box on top.

Once I parked T-Hoe in the garage and walked around, I saw what it was.

Yeah. Its looks didn't improve up close. Now it looked like a crappy clamshell with a dead lobster on top. As you might imagine, I inquired of Farmer H as to WHY this thing was in our yard, and when it got put there.

"It's a decorative rock! With a piece of driftwood on it. I put it there last night."

Uh huh. You can see that he had no qualms about driving some large vehicle (probably one of his tractors) on the not-driveway.

I don't really want that thing in front of the ugly fence for all to see. Look away. It's hideous!

I might need to start keeping closer tabs on Farmer H.

I'm Starting To Think He Plans His Day Around My Activities

Farmer H has been so busy with organizing his (ahem) collections, and Goodwill/flea market/auction/antique store shopping, that he's only half-heartedly trying to kill me. Uh huh. He's slacked off on his spouse-i-cide attempts lately. Until today.

I asked him, around 4:15, if it was raining. Normally, Farmer H wouldn't be inside the Mansion at that time. But today, after a fruitful junk-shopping trip (the spoils of which will be revealed elsewhere), he came in to watch a NASCAR race, but got enthralled in the 40th anniversary broadcast of ROOTS. Anyhoo...he ate lunch and La-Z-Boyed most of the afternoon. He had the living room shades open, though. And when I asked about the weather, I heard him stump across the floor and open the front door to take a peek outside. Unless that was an elaborate ruse, and he didn't look out.

"No. It's clear."

"Okay. I'm coming up to walk in a few minutes."

Farmer H left to feed his animals. When I got outside, on the back porch, I heard rain. There's no mistaking the ping of raindrops on a metal roof. It wasn't raining hard. But it WAS raining. I went back in to change my sweatshirt for my quilted flannel CPO jacket. I knew I'd want to wear that sweatshirt downstairs later, and I wouldn't want it wet. The jacket I could take off and hang on the stair rail post to dry. Same with my sock cap. It wouldn't hurt being wet.

For an instant, while stretching at the steps by the garage, without benefit of my loyal fleabag audience, who had forsaken me for Farmer H (!)...I contemplated not walking. But I skipped yesterday due to the freezing wind, and didn't want to take a second day off. I thought about walking around the porch, which is all under roof. Gone are the days when that was my walk of choice. Farmer H has so many objects half-clogging the porch that I fear toppling off the edge on the two sides of the house without a rail. Besides, the cats get in the way, and if the dogs returned, they would be major moving obstacles.

I started across the Farmer-H-made brick sidewalk to get to the driveway. It was slippery as snot! Slippery as a granite floor after a snail convention! Slippery as an interstate highway after the jackknifing of a semi hauling eggs. That's okay, though. I wasn't having my 22-minute walk on the sidewalk. I took care not to crack my skull on those bricks on my way to gravel.

The walk wasn't bad. The wind was minimal compared to yesterday. I could hardly feel the rain, except a little on my face. The jacket and sock cap were a good barrier.

On my fifth of six trips up the driveway, I heard a door slam. A car start. Sweet Gummi Mary! I can't even have alone-time at the end of the driveway! Here came Farmer H in the Trailblazer. I stepped off the left side of the driveway to wait in the grass. Remembering a couple weeks ago, when Farmer H arrived home while I was walking, and I stepped off to walk in the grass. And got stuck almost up to my ankles in a mole tunnel. So I stood.

"I'm going to town to put gas in my car."

"You couldn't wait until I was done walking? You HAD to go this very instant?"

"I don't know why you're always complaining at me."

"You could have waited five minutes. Or driven off to the side."

"YOU stepped off first!"

"Because I didn't want you to run over me!"

"HM. I wasn't going to run over you."

"I don't know that! You HAD to go up the driveway RIGHT NOW while I'm walking in it."

"Oh, you're full of bull! Yes, I COULD have gone off the side. But you were already off."

Uh huh. That's what he SAYS. But he could have driven straight up through the yard and not been on the driveway at all. He drives through the yard all the livelong day. Except when I'm in the driveway.

Oh, yeah. And he said it wasn't raining when he looked out.

Yep. I Did It. I ASSUMED!

My favorite gambling aunt and I usually have food left on the platter after we partake of the all-you-can-eat menu at the FelineFish Skillet. We discovered a couple of summers ago that if you don't ask for more, the staff lets you take home what's left.

The standard policy, as we knew it before (usually being there for dinner instead of lunch, and with more people that just the two of us) was that no doggie bags or foam containers were allowed. What was left on the table was disposed of. Or, as Farmer H believed, served to subsequent diners. I can see the reason for such a policy, from the owner's standpoint. It's all you can eat. Not all you can take home. What's to prevent people from eating their fill, yet telling the waitress they need more of everything. VOILA! A platter of fried foods to take home for a later feast.

Auntie never eats leftovers. She barely turns on her oven twice a year. So she always encouraged me to take the leftovers to Farmer H. Anticipating (I stop short of ASSUMING) this behavior on Thursday, I made appropriate plans. The last couple of times, the slaw juice and baked bean juice mixed a little, and dampened the fried goods on the bottom of the foam container. This time, I cleaned the empty Christmas gift bag and the butter flavor powder from my movie purse. I put in two round plastic containers with lids. That way, I could safely transport the slaw and baked beans without seepage.

Imagine my shock when, near the end of our lunch, Auntie told the waitress, right after saying she was full, "We could use a few more pieces of fish." Let the record show that I am on the previous record as describing that Thursday's fish as something like the fried tail of a perch you might catch while fishing with a worm off the dock of your Grandpa's pond in the hog lot. I ate two pieces of the fish, and did not desire more. But it's Auntie's favorite part of the selection. So I guess I should have left it all to her, and concentrated on the chicken.

Anyhoo...as the waitress left to bring us more fish, Auntie said, "You can take what's left home for Farmer H."

"I'm not sure they'll let us take it, since we asked for more. They usually don't let you take anything if you get refills on your platter."

"Oh, come on! It was just the two of us! For all-you-can-eat! This will go to waste!"

"Yeah. But I think that's their policy."

"They'll let us take it."

"Maybe."

After about 10 minutes of our waitress running around the "dinning" room, and no more fish...a dude waiter came out with a platter holding about 7 pieces of fish. He started to put it on our table.

"Oh, we don't need THAT much! Just a couple of pieces!"

Waiter Dude slid 3 pieces off the side of the platter, onto our platter that still held a considerable portion of potato wedges (Auntie won't eat them once they get cold) and fried shrimp (neither of us are a big fan) and hush puppies (I had too much chicken to concentrate on to waste my calories on hush puppies). Huh. This fresh fish was twice or triple the length of the original pieces we'd had. AND it was plump. Not like fried perch tail skin at all! Auntie ate two pieces, and encouraged me to take one. Nope. I'd calculated my portions. I resisted the temptation.

"I'm sure they'll give us a box."

"I don't know. I'll take it to Farmer H if they do. I told him I'd try to bring him some leftovers. But I don't think they'll let us do it."

I did NOT tell Auntie that I already had two round plastic containers in my movie purse, ready to stow away the slaw and baked beans. But I was thinking, even if we were told that we couldn't have a box, that I could put the stuff in there. Right at that moment, Auntie said,

"There's a camera watching you."

"What?"

"Up there. In the corner. You're on camera."

"Huh."

"Now why would they do that? What do they think they're going to see? People eating?"

"Um. Probably they see people trying to take out leftovers! My mom would have! She would have this stuff wrapped in a napkin and in her purse by now. She used to do it at the old wings place. Order a sandwich, then put some of the meat on the rolls that came with the meal, then wrap her sandwich in a napkin and take it home. And fries."

"That's crazy that they have a camera in here."

So...I gave up on the idea of using my broughten-in containers. I didn't want to be seen on camera, and have to deal with a big scene in front of that full dining room. That kind of thing could go on my permanent record, you know!

Our original waitress came back to see how we wanted the bill. Auntie told her, "Separate." AND she said, "We'll take a box for the rest of this."

The waitress waited a beat. The look on her face said that she KNEW we had gotten more fish, even though she wasn't the one to bring it. But then she said, "Okay. I'll be right back."

I took that opportunity to go to the bathroom. Where I almost burned my hands off with the 500-degree water. I might have gotten my meal free if I came out with charred stubs. But even though I have a high pain tolerance, I had to yank them back. When I returned to the table, the waitress was taking money. She walked off.

"Oh, did you pay? I'll pay you back. How much was my part?"

Auntie pointed to the little black folder on top of a foam box. "There's your bill. She says she can take it at the table." Indeed. That waitress practically ran up and asked if I was ready to pay. Then she brought my change. Which I took, because Auntie and I had already put out $3 each for a tip. Even before we got our boxes.

AND this time, we had a square box, and two small round containers with lids. So I didn't have to flaunt my thievery on camera, and I could take Farmer H unsoggy fried goods.

Let the record show that his take included about 15 shrimp, 20 potato wedges, four hush puppies, one piece of catfish, one strip of chicken, a bowl of slaw, a bowl of baked beans, and no applesauce. We only had three containers, you know. AND, I was putting the fried goods into the big one when the waitress brought my change back, and she said, "Um. The OTHER side is deeper." Darn those foam containers! Some of them seem like the top is the bottom, due to how the slots fit together to close them.

Good thing I didn't whip out my own plastic containers. It WAS a bit presumptuous assumptuous of me. After Auntie asking for more, like Oliver Twist begging gruel, it was not a sure thing that we were getting to take our leftovers home.

I'm pretty sure that waitress saw my packing technique on the surveillance camera.