But It's The Evening Of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom!

Farmer H is at it again. He's horning in on my Farmer-H-free time. Like last night. Bowling night. He gets home late, and The Pony feeds the animals. I left Newmentia early, because I didn't want The Pony to have to feed in the dark, like last week. Because it was 28 degrees when we left school.

I had signed up for a technology class on using some Google something that takes the place of spreadsheets. As you can see, I sorely needed this workshop. But when The Pony told me he wouldn't be staying for Scholar Bowl practice after all, I decided I would leave early. I had every intention of attending. I hurried up with my grading. I grabbed note-taking paraphernalia and headed down the hall, leaving The Pony to watch a movie in my room until I could make an early exit.

Of course I had to stop by the faculty women's restroom on the way. What do you think I am, a camel? There's no storing of water in this beast. So I was afraid I might be late, even though it was five minutes before the festivities were due to start. I've been to three other sessions, and people start trickling in as soon as the bell rings. Then we wait for Elementia folks to arrive. I wanted to make sure I got the same desk near the door.

I hoofed it down the ramp, past the library, and saw that the door was closed with the window blacked out. This happens sometimes. Teachers don't like interruptions. I grabbed the handle. It was unlocked. The door opened. The classroom was dark! Not a single person was in there. So I looked across the hall in the other computer lab. Nope. Only students. Wasn't THAT a fine how-do-you-do? Only this morning I had RSVPed my attendance. I had not received an email that the session was canceled. What gives?

Nose out of joint, I went back to my classroom. Told The Pony I was getting a few things ready for the next day, and we'd be leaving. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom may be stood up once. But not twice.

We headed home by way of Dairy Queen for a chicken basket for The Pony. Farmer H called while I was paying. "Dad says he isn't bowling tonight. He doesn't feel like it. But he doesn't want Dairy Queen. He's coming home." Hmpf! Good thing he didn't want Dairy Queen, because I didn't offer it. The order was already made. He was on his own. It was THURSDAY, by cracky! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not responsible for him on bowling nights.

Yep. He arrived home soon after The Pony had fed his animals. "I'm sick. I'm going to bed." Yeah. He's always sick. That means he's restless when I go to bed, and snorts and complains and keeps me from sleeping, after he's already had a full eight hours.

Or the breather spews toxic virus into my nose and gaping mouth while I think I am restoring my health with a good night's sleep.

Farmer H. The horningest horner-inner who ever horned.

Forget The Whaaaambulance, Call The Fire Department

Hey! Have you heard? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is an arsonist! Uh huh. And maybe there's an award in it for her. Because just this morning, a pupil told her, "You have the best burns ever!"

Let the record show that Mrs. HM is not trying to bruise the tender self esteem of her charges. On the contrary. She is trading barbs. Well. Not so much trading barbs as shooting barbs at weak little fumbling infantile attempts at besting her efforts towards classroom control. Also let the record show that they started it!

Taking attendance is like running a marathon during this particular class period. It helps not that only five girls are interspersed with sixteen adolescent males jousting for superiority. No buffers. It's like Lord of the Flies in there. I would smite them with a bone-crushing bellringer every day, but that would only make more work for me while they pointedly ignored it. I swear they are avid enthusiasts of Roseanne Roseannadanna, because IT'S ALWAYS SOMETHING! Today, for instance...

"Hey! Tex! Put that thing away!"

"Are you looking at your PHONE?"

"What? No! I don't have my phone out."

"Huh. You look like that every day. When you have your phone out. All hunched over. In fact, I'm getting worried about your posture."

"I don't have my phone out. I'm tall. I sit that way so people can see over me."

"Then when I ask what you're doing, you slide your hand in your pocket. Just like now. To put your phone away."

"I'm not putting my phone away. I'm cold! It's cold in here. I was putting my hand in my pocket to get it warm."

"Huh. I thought cell phones heated up when you used them so much. Surely that would keep your hand warm enough to stay out of your pocket."

"Ooh! BURN! You have the best burns ever!"

And...SCENE! Attendance taken. With one mental arm behind my ever-being-broken back.

It's An Occupational Chronic Affliction That Hits Around This Time Every Year

Whoa. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's back hurts tonight, my friends. Hurts from bending over backwards, jumping through hoops, and fending off those who would walk all over her. But she plods on, carrying her burden, inching closer all the time to that finish line one and five-eighths years away.

Yes, Mrs. HM looks forward to those days of sleeping in. Of not giving a fat rodent's behind whether somebody who is old enough not to really, really has to go to the bathroom real quick. I swear. This is the oldest group of not-fully-potty-trained youth I have presided over. Ever. And they're not yet able to go two hours without feeding, it seems. Sneaking in purloined cereal tubs from the free breakfast program. And having the audacity to walk right by me with the empty tub to throw it in the wastebasket, after leaving it in the desk yesterday. Two strikes, buddy. Heed the caution flag I threw at you today.

Oh, and it's a mystery that somebody looked up grades, and can't figure out what the assignment marked p a r t i c with a date beside it stands for, but wants to know why he had an F for that grade. Um. Read the description. Oh. You did. Then surely you understand.

And someone else wants to know why he doesn't have a grade for an assignment labeled transfer grade for new student. Just what IS that, anyway? Um. It's a transfer grade for a new student. So if you're not the new student, you will never have a grade for that one. That's why there's nothing by it. No incomplete, no missing, no zero, no dashed line. Nothing. It doesn't pertain to you. But it has to go there or else I have to go back and find every new student at the end of the semester and update their quarter grades unless I put it in that way so it will average automatically.

Then somebody needs to come in after school while hanging around killing time until practice to ask to see his grade. Which can be accessed online if one does not owe any lunch fees. And which can be asked in class on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's work time, and she will break policy and tell, but not on her unpaid after school time when she is trying to get caught up, after spending her time digging out missing assignments for those who asked, which will never again cross the desk of Mrs. HM, but at least she tried.

Oh. My. Achin'. Back.

Far Be It From Mrs. Hillbilly Mom To Rub Salt In The Wounds Of Those Who Are Smarting

Life is sweet! Mrs. Not-A-Cook, two doors down from my Newmentia classroom, is throwing in the towel in a year and five-eighths, just like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! While it's nice to have a partner in eventual escape, I hope I don't hurt my back carrying her. Just this morning, she says to me, "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom," she says, "we really ought to have a countdown."

"You mean, like marks on the wall? Or Xs on a calendar?"

"No, I mean like a number of days left that we can see each day."

"Oh, you mean like my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel texts me every morning, even though it means standing out on her deck and holding her iPhone as high in the sky as she can reach so she can get a signal."

"Yeah. How many days are we contracted for? Isn't it 181?"

"I don't think it's that much. I think it's 174."

"I thought that was for the kids."

"I don't know! Now it's time for the bell. Mabel has that all figured out! It's on my phone right now. But I DO know that as of Friday, we will only have one year and five-eighths to go."

"Five-eighths?"

"Yeah! Are you not good with fractions?"

Uh huh. It's nice to have someone to count down with, but she's already wearing me out. Luckily lunch time put the bounce back in my step. The starch in my sails. The ball in my court. Yep. The subject of the Semi-Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank was...RETIREMENT!

Those young whippersnappers were lamenting how many years they had left.

"I don't think I can make it after only 25 years. The money isn't enough. I'll have to go until 30."

"I'm out at 25. I'll get some other kind of job on the side."

"I don't mind the kids. It's all these hoops we have to jump through. It's ridiculous. That's all we have time for."

"Don't worry. That'll all change again in five years. It always does."

"I will be really old. Because I started later in life. The rule of 80 will get me out when I'm 59."

"I'm gonna keep on doin' what I'm doin'"

"It wouldn't be so bad if I could do something different."

"You mean like librarian? That doesn't seem too hard. All you have to do is keep track of your stuff."

"I don't know if I would like that."

"Yeah. You're a people person. So probably not. But I'm an anti-people person. So I would love it."

"Good luck with that. Our librarian isn't retiring yet."

"Why would she? It's the perfect job."

"I can go at 25 in only 9 years. But I think I'll have to wait until 14."

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye. Adieu, adieu, to you and you and you-ooo. Goodbye. Goodbye. GoodBYYYYYYYE....

Yeah. I didn't even rub it in that I only have one and five-eighths years to go.

We Have Our Own Language In This Here Hillmomban Enclave

Have you heard? Farmer H and The Pony were away from the Mansion for a couple of days. They are most certainly back. It was obvious last evening. The Pony ensconced himself in his indentation on the cushions of the basement couch like he'd never left, and I could hear Farmer H stumping around upstairs on the ends of his tibias and fibulas.

Not only was Farmer H stumping, he was apparently giving a world class exhibition of the Irish jig. And, for good measure, an encore with the Russian Squat Dance.

In fact, up in the living room there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my rolly chair to see what was the matter. Okay. Not really. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not spring. But I DID holler to The Pony.

"WHAT was THAT?"

"Oh, it's just the package people."

Let the record show that just before this most recent flurry of loud thumping, I heard Farmer H's cell phone ring. It's quite distinctive. It sounds like a phone ringing. No fancy schmancy ringtones for my man. A phone is a phone, and it should ring like a phone. To say Farmer H lacks imagination is an understatement.

"Package people? Did your dad order a package? Are they here to deliver it? Answer the door!"

"No! The PACKAGE people."

"What? Are they calling him for directions so they can bring the package? I heard him run to the bathroom to get his phone. He sounded like a herd of hippos on stampede."

"NOT the PACKAGE people! The PORCH PEOPLE!"

"Porch people?"

"Yeah. Juno and Ann. That's what I call the dogs. They're wresting on the front porch."

So much for any semblance of normalcy now that my guys are back under the Mansion roof.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Not Taking The Fall

Hmpf! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is left home alone to mind the Mansion for two-and-a-half days, and now she's being blamed for mayhem. Mayhem! And I don't mean that dude from the Allstate Insurance commercials.

Where is the thanks she deserves for keeping all the animals alive in the absence of Farmer H? Not forthcoming, that's for sure.

Don't let Mrs. Hillbilly Mom be railroaded toward a conviction! If a trial is called, make sure that you do not shirk your civic duty. Show up bright and early on jury selection day. Campaign for a slot like Gracie Lou Freebush going after the crown at The Miss United States Pageant. And DON'T settle for Miss Congeniality!

Here is the crime of act or omission that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been interrogated about:

Yes. That is Farmer H's prize birdbath. He bought it at the auction, of course, and not very long ago. It is a beloved perch for Farmer H's chickens, who do not seem to put any stock in my calls from behind the living room window that it is NOT a chicken bath, and they should hop down forthwith.

As you might imagine, the birdbath held water much better when the rim was not chunked and laid inside itself. Nobody seems to know when this damage occurred. Farmer H demanded to know the weather forecast during his absence.

"Did we have high winds here while I was gone?"

"I don't know. There were 35 mile an hour winds the other day. But I don't remember which day."

"Did you see what happened?"

"No. I do not sit and watch the birdbath. Those chickens are in it all the time. I am not in the habit of sneaking peeks at fowl in the act of bathing. Maybe your turkey was feeling less than fresh, and decided to bathe."

"The whole top of it is in the rock garden. Broken."

"That's too bad. I'm sure you can find another one."

Seriously. The time for bathing has ended. He has all winter to find another birdbath. It's not like his chickens are going to go all Woodstock on him and put on a little stocking cap and skate around the birdbath.

You might notice the details on Farmer H's birdbath. It's made to look like a log, with a squirrel scampering up the side. That's my sweet, sweet Juno's butt in the foreground, and a couple of white chicken bathing beauties in the background. I know that Juno's back looks wide and Ann-like from this angle. The camera adds ten pounds, you know. Besides, Ann has coarse fur and carries her tail high, whereas Juno's silky tresses shine like those of a Miss United States, and she carries her tail low, like a proper lady.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will have her story straight by trial time. She will not be hoisted on her own petard. Just because she cheered the leg lamp destruction scene in A Christmas Story does not mean she acted inappropriately with the birdbath. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will answer questions under cross examination. She already has her defense in order.

"I don't know nothin' 'bout bathin' no birds."

No Good Deed Goes Un Not-Happymaking

You know what would probably make a teacher really kind of not-happy after school on a Friday afternoon?

If she put off making copies before school because she had only 15 minutes before her duty started, and put off making those copies on her plan time 4th hour because two other teachers had been ruling the Kyoceras the first half of those lunch shifts, and then during the second half, a particularly vociferous fellow had taken up residence at the table in the teacher workroom.

Oh, but the mere act of staying after on a Friday afternoon is not enough to make a teacher really kind of not-happy. Nothing wrong with peacefully setting both Kyoceras in motion with papers for two different subjects, walking from one to the other to take off a stack and insert new originals. Nothing wrong with tearing open a ream of paper and setting it on the little staging table by the restrooms, waiting for one or another Kyocera to run dry. Nope. Nothing related to not-happiness there.

But what might make a teacher really kind of not-happy would be if a newcomer came in carrying a single piece of paper, eyeing the spoken-for Kyoceras. So a teacher using those Kyoceras might politely ask, "Do you need to make a copy?" Because that's what polite co-workers do. "This one here will be done first. If you need to run a copy."

"I have a lot of copies to make." Which may seem like a simple statement of fact, but more likely sounds to that teacher like a passive-aggressive attempt to shame her into giving up a copier.

"I know what you mean. I'm running a lot of copies. It's the first time I could get to the copiers all day." Which establishes that she was here first, and has rightful claim to both of those copiers, because WHO IN THE NOT-HEAVEN COMES IN AT 3:30 ON A FRIDAY TO MAKE COPIES?

"I could let you use this one when that set is done. It seems to be going really slow today." Which is the teacher doing that guy a favor, really. Because in the teacher workroom, possession of the copier is ten-tenths of the law, and a bag of chips.

"It's slow? I really have a lot of copies." Which is that dude alluding to the fact that the kindhearted teacher should actually let him use the fast machine.

"Slow. But it IS working." Which is the teacher sticking it to the dude, thumbing her nose, without the nyah nyah business.

So both parties stand their ground at their respective Kyoceras, neither giving an inch, until the slow Kyocera runs out of paper. And the dude grabs the stack of 500 sheets that the teacher has already unwrapped.

"Oh. Go ahead and use that. I unwrapped it because I knew one of the machines would run out while I was copying." And the dude DOES use it. And acts like the teacher is being all pissy by giving him permission to use a stack of paper he found on the staging table already unwrapped.

A pupil passes by. Looks into the room. Goes past. Comes back. Is invited in by the dude. Makes small talk about maybe he can do it right this time. At which point the teacher, who had no desire to spend personal time in the TEACHER WORKROOM with a STUDENT, notes that the very large stack of copies on the dude's Kyocera is near to blocking the slot that shoots them out.

"Oh. You might want to take some of that stack off. Because sometimes that machine will fold the copy on itself, and then it jams." Which was just the teacher trying to keep that Kyocera from jamming, in case she needed it again later.

"Uh huh. When it's stapling." Which was the dude being a wiseacre to impress the student.

Yeah. That's exactly what would make a teacher kind of not-happy on a Friday afternoon.