What We Have Here Is A Failure To Elaborate

Farmer H is full of...of...tales. Yeah. That's the ticket. Farmer H is full of tales.

"I went over to feed the horse--"

"You mean the mini pony?"

"Yeah. I went over to feed the horse, and I was getting the hay down--"

"You carried it on top of your Gator?"

"No, HM. I have hay where he cain't get to it."

"Oh. Not in the pen."

"Yes, it's in his pen! But I keep it stacked where he cain't--"

"What's it stacked on?"

"It ain't stacked on nothin'. I keep it so--"

"It's on the ground? In his pen? So he can just walk up and eat it when he wants? He'll founder!"

"No. It's on the other side of the fence, where--"

"So it's NOT in his pen! It's on the other side of the fence."

"It's in his pen, HM. I put it in the shed I built for the goats...and him, so he--"

"He can't even get in his shed? Because you have the hay in there?"

"He can get in the shed. I put the hay behind the fence so--"

"WAIT! You put the hay behind the fence, but the hay is in the pen, inside his shed...YOU BUILT A FENCE INSIDE HIS SHED?"

"YES! There's a fence to keep him from getting to the hay. Inside his shed."

"Well, why didn't you SAY so?"

"Anyway, what I started out to tell you was that when I cut off a section of hay for him, and pulled it down, THREE EGGS FELL ON ME!"

I don't know about you, but cub reporter Mrs. Hillbilly Mom sees the FENCE INSIDE A SHED as being more of a story than three eggs falling off some hay.

Let's Hope Word Of This Doesn't Get Out

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has some classes that work faster than others. There are four sections of the subject. Pupils are not exactly grouped randomly, but rather tracked by their math classes. This is good in some ways, and not so good in others. Topics can be covered in more depth with certain groups, and adjusted for others. Still, the behavior factor means that sometimes, the lesson is over with 5-7 minutes to spare in the more cooperative classes.

Rather than drill the Quickies with enrichment activities, which they see as punishment, extra work for being so efficient, Mrs. HM has been showing them snippets of a movie. It's not the greatest movie, but it grabs the interest of these freshman classes. It involves a bunch of kids going to camp at the space center in Huntsville, Alabama.

Each period that time allows a showing, Mrs. HM has to quiz her pupils on how far they got the last time. It just so happened that on Friday, a class was ready to resume at the part where the future wife of John Travolta is putting makeup on the future mom of Marty McFly, sitting on bunk beds in the dormitory of the camp. The Quickies are quick to pick up on things.

"Okay...anybody remember where you were?" asked Mrs. Hillbilly Mom as she cued up the DVD.

"Yeah. We were at the bedroom scene."

Never a dull moment in Mrs. HM's work day.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is A Big Ol' Fraud

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is going out with a blaze of glory!

She was the subject of an impromptu discussion at the convening of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank. The Woodsman mentioned something about those pesky S L O requirements concerning the U O I, and the man in charge announced, "If you'd like to see a good one, look at Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's. It's EXEMPLARY. In fact, I saved it in a file marked "EXEMPLARY." I think I'm going to print it out to use as an example."

OH, YEAH! Said in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's head, with the inflection of The Kool-Aid Man.

Uh huh. Mrs. HM has never been used as a good example. Even though she IS a good example. An EXEMPLARY example, to be exact. And has been, all these 28 years. It's just that she went unrecognized. And now credit is being given where credit is long overdue.

So...to be humble about it, I told The Woodsman, "Well, I have SO many years of experience." You know. I didn't want to brag, being such a Master Teacher and all.

Then, as irony would have it, a rain cloud shouldering its way in on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's moment in the sun...I turned to the man in charge, and commented how I was not impressed by those new standards that I received in an email this morning. The ones that still have to be approved by the state of Missouri. Told him how I read through all three sciences, middle school and high school levels, comparing them with what we teach now. This new IN thing in Missouri education. The final version that is being sent for a vote of approval.

"I'm really not that impressed with the Sidewalks."

If only Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was more limber, she would have crawled right under that lunch table in embarrassment. Because the man in charge gave her a quizzical look, and said,

"Oh. You mean the Crosswalks."

Cus, In The Faculty Women’s Restroom, With A Cell Phone

No. We’re not playing a game of Clue. There’s been no murder. We’re talking about the latest fright in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s life.

Perhaps you remember the Autumn (and Winter and Spring) of Cus. Here. Let me play a bit of the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly for you. There. Now is it coming back to you? Those battles waged between Cus and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, over putting the caps on her personal writing implements, and using the bleach rag inside Mrs. HM’s mini fridge, and adjusting 25 chairs by six inches once a week to make Mrs. HM’s duty day even busier?

Although Cus won many battles, due mainly to the fact that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not present to protest…Mrs. HM won the war. In a manner of speaking. Because Cus up and went to work at Basementia, leaving Newmentia blissfully un-Cus-ed for the last two years.

Today we had an assembly. The first of the year. A grand occasion, one which begged the attendance of the entire population of Basementia. Of course it ended ten minutes before we had planned, because it started ten minutes before we had planned. Which left us with a sliver of 6^th hour to teach something to the students. Seven minutes is not quite enough time for even a pro like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to engender knowledge through skulls stirred into a tizzy by some powerful weightlifter motivational speakers. But Mrs. HM was game to try. Or at least to keep order until time for the bell.

However…we were all caught off guard. One minute, the head weightlifter was speaking, and the next, it was Mr. Principal. Usually, he adds a few comments after an assembly. Ties in local connections with the subject. But not today! The first words out of his mouth were, “You can go on back to sixth hour.”

WHAT? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had not even sneaked the restroom break she had built into this assembly schedule! So off she hobbled, like a glue-factory-rejected nag, in an attempt to beat the thoroughbreds who stable on her hall to the faculty women’s restroom. She had to get there first! Second wouldn’t do, because her class that just launched itself out of the bleachers like Usain Bolt out of the starting blocks at the Olympics, are not…how you say…ones to be left unattended.

I cut diagonally across the cafeteria, weaving through seven-chaired round tables (yes, Mabel, there have been cutbacks) and six-chaired hexagonal tables and eight-chaired rectangular tables. Ah! First one into the teacher workroom! Wait. What’s that? Somebody talking? Faint. They might be around the corner, by the refrigerator! I had to be first in the faculty women’s restroom. I tried the door handle. Pushed gently down on the lever. That’s because if you try to barge right in, you will likely smack your face on the heavy wooden door, what with it always being occupied and locked. So I gently pushed down. I hate it when people (you know who you are…Arch Nemesis…Mrs. Not-A-Cook!) rattle that door lever while I’m smugly ensconced on the throne.

Yes, I gently pushed down on that door handle, and the door opened. Almost. It went halfway, then caught up. Not like on the stubby doorstop inside, to prop it open when mopping between classes, thus disabling our drop station during the crucial four minutes. This was something else holding it up.

IT WAS CUS!

CUS! Standing in the women’s faculty restroom, behind the inward-opening door, not pooping or peeing, not washing hands or primping, not looking for a bat in the belfry, not checking for a visible thong line. Standing behind the door! Kind of like hiding, to talk on the phone.

And can you believe that Cus looked at me like I was the one in the wrong? Like I had barged in and interrupted! Like I was psychic. Like I could see through heavy wooden doors. Sweet Gummi Mary! Lock the freakin’ door if you want privacy! A faculty women's restroom is not a phone booth.

“Oh. I have to go to the bathroom. He just let all the kids out of the assembly, and they’re on their way.”

Well. Cus looked as panicked as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

It’s safe to say that Cus was supposed to be out back with the bus to take Basementia students back to Basementia in time for final dismissal. Cus took off out of that faculty women's restroom like a freshman out of Mrs. HM's room when the lunch bell rings.

Ah. Mission accomplished.

First one in the FWR, with the ousting of Cus a feather in my cap.

Achin’, Not Perturbed

The name is Mom. Hillbilly Mom. And in case you haven’t noticed, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom don’t get no respect.

She has devoted her life (okay, a portion of her born days, since she DOES have a lot of rings if you cut her open, [WARNING: Do Not Cut Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Open!] so let’s say she has devoted 28 of her years on this planet) to teaching. And 20 of those years have been in service to Newmentia. So one might assume that with such a dependable track record, Mrs. HM might have some perks accrued, other than the 97 sick days she currently has stockpiled, which will garner her $20 per day upon retirement. Which is at the end of May, in case you haven’t heard.

You know what happens when we assume.

It’s not like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is expecting a gold watch, or a trip to Tahiti. No. She expects that after sitting at the same seat at the same table in the same library for each monthly faculty meeting, (which would tally up to around 200, minus the Dec-May meetings which haven’t happened yet, and minus the one where Jewels usurped Mrs. HM’s throne, leaving us with 193 times Mrs. HM’s seat has been occupied by her…um…well…seat) that her seat might remain open until she finishes her parking lot duty and can join that meeting in progress.

It all started with an item on the agenda at the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank. “Faculty meeting after school. It will be short. Maybe five minutes.”

“Oh. You know I have duty on Mondays. So I’ll be a little late.”

“You’ll probably miss it.” The Man in Charge seemed certain.

“WHAT? I might miss something important!”

“Look at her. Almost retired, but she doesn’t want to miss a single meeting.” Lady Specialty knows the date!

“I’ll be out of the loop!”

“We’ll take notes for you.”

So…on Monday afternoon, I came in from my duty, to the meeting which I had been told would only last five minutes, and that I would probably miss it…to find that the meeting had not started at all. AND ARCH NEMESIS WAS SITTING IN MY SEAT!

Boy howdy! Ain’t THAT a fine how-do-you-do!

“We know how much you didn’t want to miss this meeting. So we cared enough to wait until you got here to start.” Lady Specialty, still messin’ with me.

“Obviously you didn’t care enough to SAVE MY SEAT! The seat I have sat in every single meeting except one.”

Arch looked surprise. I don’t know why. Because she NEVER sits at my table. She has her own group. I would never sit at their table. That’s just how things are. Arch made a big production of getting up and moving to her table. All she had to do was pull a rolly chair over.

But the big question is why nobody was looking out for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! There were Mabel’s Replacement’s keys marking the spot right next to my place, saved for Sweet Alabama Beige, who had duty out front. But no saving for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! What’s up with that? Does she not arrive 30 minutes early for the back-to-school faculty breakfast, to save seats for Sweet Alabama Beige and Mabel’s Replacement? It’s not like MR is a newbie. She has been here for years, in another capacity before she became Mabel’s Replacement. And I always save a seat for her. But no Hillbilly Mom love was flowin’ on Monday afternoon.

“Oh. Now I feel bad. I thought everyone would know that was your seat.”

“But you saved one for Sweet Alabama Beige!”

“Yeah. I was afraid somebody would take her seat. I am so sorry. And every year, I come to the cafeteria late, and look for you to motion me over to the table where you’ve saved us seats for breakfast. I’m going to feel really bad in August…but you won’t be there to save me a seat!”

“No. You’ll have to get there 30 minutes early yourself, I guess.”

“Well. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking.”

Yeah. Nobody thinks about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s feelings. I’m not even mad. I’m just sad. Always the giver, never the receiver.

Please play a selection on the world’s smallest violin for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Oops! He Did It Again. He Messed With HM.

Farmer H was at it again Monday night. Slowing driving Mrs. Hillbilly Mom crazy with his uncalled-for antics. Of which he pleads ignorance. Which IS a good defense for him. But like Dean Wormer told Bluto in Animal House: "Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life." Not that Farmer H was drunk.

I knew The Pony and I would be home late. The Pony has a standing appointment on Monday evenings. So on Sunday, I cooked up some chicken breasts in my oven (now with TWO working elements) so I could make some into chicken salad for my lunches, and Farmer H could have one for supper on Monday, and The Pony could have one for supper on Tuesday, another late evening for us. The Pony is not always fond of what I make for Farmer H and I to feast on. But I know he likes chicken.

I left the chicken salad breasts bereft of seasoning. And I sprinkled some lemon pepper on the other two. A little bit for Farmer H, who had the biggest breast (heh, heh), and a lot for The Pony, who had a smaller one. The Pony is all about salt, but Farmer H shuns it like a hypertensive maniac. Farmer H also had some beanie weenies that I made him on Saturday for lunch. And you KNOW how Farmer H loves him some hot dogs and beans. I put his piece of chicken in a small rectangular container, and set the round container of his beanie weenies on top of it. In a separate place in Frig II, I put The Pony's piece of chicken, in a smaller rectangular container, with nothing near it. He was going to have some pasta on the side, to be cooked Tuesday night.

Imagine my surprise Tuesday morning to see that The Pony's chicken was GONE! Gone, baby, gone! And there was Farmer H's piece of chicken, all man-sized and lightly-seasoned, sitting in its container under the untouched beanie weenies right on Frig II's top shelf, in the front.

I swear. How can that man be such a fumbler?

Next time, I guess I'll tie it around his neck so he is sure to get the meal prepared especially for him.

That's Hallway Robbery!

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is mad as not-heaven, and she’s not going to take it anymore! She is going on strike! Yes. On strike! Not like one of those teachers’ strikes where the only people who don’t ever benefit are the kids. No. Mrs. HM is not a collective bargainer. She can continue to do her job, all the while making the entity she strikes against suffer in its pocketbook.

Yes. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is on strike against EXPO Dry Erase Markers and Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pens! They are against the little people. The teachers who depend upon them to get through the day.

This is not going to be one of those weird strikes, like in an ‘80s Afterschool Special where the mom goes out and lives in a treehouse and her household falls apart because her underappreciative husband and kids can't function without her telling them to breathe in/breathe out. No. This is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom taking a stand. Refusing to buy another EXPO Dry Erase Marker of Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pen.

Here are the two latest deceased nags in Mrs. HM's stable of writing implements.

Yes. They expired Friday afternoon. Mrs. HM couldn't bear to part with them under such sudden circumstances. So she kept them, in their regular habitats, until this morning. The shock having worn off over the weekend, Mrs. HM realized that her right-hand men would be of no use to her now. So she gave them a burial in the circular file.

Here's the deal. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not expect her writing implements to last forever. These two old soldiers served her well. No, it's not that these two died before their time. It's the problem of their replacements.

YOU CANNOT BUY THESE TWO AS SINGLE ITEMS!

That's a fine how-do-you-do for a teacher. Making her buy FOUR EXPO Dry Erase Markers to get a blue one, and FOUR Pilot Precise V5s to get a red one. That's HALLWAY ROBBERY! Heh, heh, see what I did there?

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom refuses to spend her hard-earned money on superfluous writing implements. Why, she already has three extra green, black, and red EXPO Dry Erase Markers, and two extra green, black, and blue Pilot V5s waiting on deck until it's their turn at bat.

That's right. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is on strike! She will not buy another four-pack of EXPOs or Pilots. After those two packs she bought yesterday.