Sometimes Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Overly Suspicious

I caught The Pony leaving the Mansion this morning with a large ACT Practice Manual.

Yeah. It's not like he was sneaking out a sweatshirt emblazoned with a monster exhibiting many loose eyeballs so he could hide it in the bushes by the garage and put it on later and wear it to school. Still. He seemed secretive about it.

"What are you doing with that practice book? I thought you were done taking the ACT."

"I am."

"So what are you doing with the book?"

"Taking it to school."

"Why?"

"I told somebody I would loan it."

"Who? Why are you being so secretive?"

"This girl. She's the girlfriend of that one guy. On Scholar Bowl team."

"Did she ask to use it?"

"I heard that she was not happy with her score on the practice test they took at school last week. So I said I'd bring my practice book."

"Okay. But I want it back. It's just a loan. I'm not giving it away. I did that with your brother's physics book, and now I've had to buy a whole new one for you. I'd rather see that somebody gets it who can't afford it. She can."

"I don't know why you don't trust me."

"You just act so sketchy about things. I can't explain it. But if you said you'd loan it, fine. Get it back after she takes the test."

We got to school and The Pony hoofed it in ahead of me as usual. I happened to walk through the doors as he was going down the hall to his locker, carrying the practice book. That kid from Scholar Bowl overtook him on the way to the lockers.

"Oh. Hey. Here's this book. Give it to your lady."

"Oh, yeah. She was hoping you'd bring it."

"I forgot yesterday. But here it is."

The contraband changed hands. I guess he's on the up-and-up. Seriously. Who says, "Give this to your lady?" The Pony. That's who.

Funny Is In The Mind Of The Joke Teller, It Seems

Friday evening, The Pony sent Farmer H a text asking if he would pick up Chinese for supper. Farmer H usually swings by through town on his way home, instead of coming in the back way. "Dad says he can go to town and get it after he's done with the roofer. What's that mean?"

"Oh. Well...I don't know how to tell you this, Pony, but your dad's up on the roof..."

"What?"

"You don't know that old joke, do you? I heard it at a coach's banquet way back when I worked at another school. The sporting goods store in your brother's college town threw a big shindig at the end of the year. Free food and drinks and door prizes and a guest speaker. One year it was Charlie Spoonhour, back before he got really famous, when he coached at my old college. That man could tell a story...so he says there was this kid who went off to college, and asked his brother to take care of his cat. That cat died within a couple of weeks, but the family didn't want to tell the kid, what with him being all alone and on his own for the first time. He called every Sunday to talk to the family, and he ended the call asking about his cat. After it died, the brother came up with a plan.

"How's Kitty?"

"Kitty is up on the roof. She's trying to catch a bird, and we can't get her down. We're trying, though."

Next week: "How's Kitty? Did you get her down from the roof?"

"The bird flew away, and Kitty fell off the roof. We rushed her to the vet. She's there now."

Next week: "How's Kitty? Did the vet get her fixed up?"

"The vet operated on her, but he says it's not looking good for Kitty."

Next week: "How's Kitty? Did she recover from the surgery?"

"The vet said that Kitty was pretty old, and he did all that he could for her, but she died peacefully in her sleep."

"Aw. I loved that cat. I had her since I was a little boy. Well. How's grandma?"

"Um. Grandma is up on the roof..."

"Mom. That is not really a good story."

"It was just a joke, Pony. Don't worry. Your dad is probably not even up on the roof. I imagine he's holding the ladder for the roofer. He's getting an estimate for those loose shingles."

"Huh. I guess he will still go get Chinese."

"Yeah. I think he will."

The Devil Will Not Be Finding Work For Farmer H's Hands

This morning I was watching a marathon of Flip or Flop while making up my shopping list for The Devil's Playground. Of course that's a mistake when Farmer H is in the vicinity. Not the list. All he asked for was a pack of Hanes tagless briefs, XL. I don't know who he's trying to impress! No, you don't want to be watching Flip of Flop when Farmer H wanders by, because he will stop like a fly trapped in honey. As much a pest, but not as sweet.

Farmer H fancies himself a Flipper. Not a Flopper. He has helped his friend Buddy remodel a house. He fixed up my first place. He made our rental duplex livable again. The skills are there. Maybe that's a better use of his time than constructing a new themed shanty every month. "That's something for me to do when I retire. I'm still healthy enough to do that. It couldn't cost us more than about $30,000 for a house. We can make the payments on that, easy, until we sell it." Said the man who brings in 2/3 of our income, who will be leaving the workforce in one year, and then making half of my retirement check.

"I don't know about that. We'll have two boys in college. And I need a new car."

"Or we could do like your grandma did. To get your quarters in. So you can get Medicare, and not have to pay for insurance through the school."

"I think I can get it because I'm married to you. My best ol' ex teaching buddy Mabel, I think, gets it because of her husband. I might have 25 quarters now, from my jobs other than teaching for 28 years."

"We can get you a paper route like your grandma did."

"And I can pull in the check and get the quarters, and you can do the work."

"Yeah. I'll do the work. It will give me something to do."

Ah...Farmer H and his crazy pipe dreams. So far he has planned to get his barber's license, drive a delivery truck for an automotive parts store, deliver medicine for a pharmacy, drive a local cab, work part-time at Lowe's, and buy storage units and sell junk at the auction.

Any and all of them sound good to me.

Even Steven Owes Me One

Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H might have found a new auction to occupy his time!

You may remember that the very week we finished cleaning out the contents of my mom's house, much of them going straight into boxes because Farmer H declared that he could sell them at the auction...Farmer H quit going to the auction.

Actually, that's not quite true. He went, but the police showed up so he left. Farmer H does not have outstanding warrants. That I know of! There was that one time a process server knocked on the front door of our old house (did you know process servers are kind of sneaky, and look like regular people?) and foisted a fistful of papers on me, and said that I should make sure Farmer H showed up in court, or a bench warrant would be issued for his arrest. Not because he did anything wrong, but because some kids stole our lawnmower, and Farmer H pressed charges, and he had to go to the trial. That's a whole 'nother story for another day.

Anyhoo...the couple who ran Farmer H's auction were going through a rocky divorce, and each claimed they owned the auction, and the dude had to leave because the gal had a restraining order. So here we were, with two freight containers filled with cardboard-boxed household items, and nowhere to unload them.

AND Farmer H decided not to bowl in his league for the first time in 20 years. So he's been underfoot every weekday night, when he used to be gone one night for bowling, and one night for auctioning. But Friday night, after getting a guy off our roof, he declared that his auction friend had sent him a text that he was selling at a new auction, and did Farmer H want to go there and check it out. Which is what guys do, I guess. Like women go to the bathroom in pairs, guys show up to watch each other sell stuff at auctions.

I hope this is the continuance of a beautiful auctionship.

Danged If You Do, Danged If You Don't

The instructors, staff, and pupils of Newmentia extend their best wishes to our neighbors to the southwest, who have been in the news recently, and not portrayed in their best light. And we're not talking about Mexico. No, we are talking about an institution of learning in the same classification as Newmentia.

Let the record show that patrons of our neighbor have been up in arms recently over the sustenance provided for their pupils. This roiling cauldron of discontent bubbled over midweek, when a photo of a mold-infused breadstuff hit the social media. Apparently a pupil posted the evidence after capturing the likeness with his cellular device. Whether transmission occurred during the learning time or during personal time is not known to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. A patron contacted local news channels, and the incident was flashed over the cable wires and satellite signals.

Of course this exposure was discovered by the pupils' 'pal. He called a meeting and informed them, in no uncertain terms, that further postings of such material would result in all not-heaven breaking loose, and consequences for the perpetrators. Of course one of the attendees recorded the 'pal and put it out on social media.

Here's the thing. Many years ago, when Newmentia was still a shining learning mill upon a hill, we had a similar incident. With food. Not with the media. A long-ago prospective member of what would later become the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank bit into his burger and noticed that he needed condiments. He removed the top layer of baked goods at the communal bucket of ketchup, and was ready to pump the spout when he saw it. And brought it back to the Think Tankers for our perusal.

"Is it just me, or is there a green spot on that patty?"

"It's not just you. Yuck! There's M O L D growing on your burger."

Let the record show that the prospective member was of the athletic staff, and actually had TWO burgers on his tray. He took the offending one back into the kitchen area to voice his opinion. Then he returned to the table to eye our food. Shorthy, one of the kitchen crew came out to assess the situation.

"I heard that you got a bad burger."

"Yes. That one I brought in. It had a spot growing on the burger."

"Oh! I thought we pulled all of those out of the bag and threw them away. I'll bring you another burger."

A statement which did nothing to instill our confidence in the kitchen crew. Seeing as how they KNEW about the problem in advance, and chose to dish up the unmarred patties.

"No. Why in the world would I want another one?"

Here's the thing. Nobody took the issue to the media. We were tougher back then. A spot of M O L D was not enough to call for the 'pal's head on a platter. As if HE was the one responsible. It was enough that he knew about it, and investigated the situation to see that it did not happen again. And that was back in the days when the kitchen crew had more leeway in serving up a variety of foodstuffs, and didn't have their hands tied behind their collective backs with strict federal dietary regulations.

Here's the thing. When kids being kids post something on social media, something about a boyfriend stealer needing to back off someone's ex...the parental units are all up in arms. They rush to Newmentia and want the 'pal to DO SOMETHING. Uh huh. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was dragged into one of these wicked webs when a former gal pal of the #1 son had a mom who stirred stuff up. When neither #1 nor Mrs. HM had anything to do with it, and were happily unaware until the poo hit the ventilation system. He because he was being fought over, and Mrs. HM because the poo-stirrer asked, "Aren't you going to do anything to #1's mother? She WORKS here!" Again, with neither #1 nor HM even reading about the squabble, and most certainly not posting a single word.

So...if patrons expect the 'pal to DO SOMETHING when an incident unrelated to the educational institution causes discord among the pupils and their families...why should they be surprised when a 'pal tries to DO SOMETHING about an incident that IS related to the educational institution causes discord among the pupils and their families?

You can't have it both ways. Either social media is a realm of personal expression, or it's an outlet to be monitored and policed by the educational institution.

Just sayin'.

Farmer H And The Pony Sometimes Self-Thwart

Here's how we roll in Hillmomba.

There is a scholarship deadline on Friday. This scholarship is no secret. It has been published in the Newmentia announcements for nigh on two months. The Pony has spent a week working on his submission. Students must go to the sponsor's website, click for the form, and get an ID number. Fill out information for academic honors, work history, community service, and standardized test scores. They must write an essay of 500 words about what they have learned about leadership roles. They need a letter from the counselor. An official transcript. Printouts of standardized test scores. And a copy of their current semester schedule. In addition, they can have 10 pages (front and back acceptable) of documentation for newspaper articles, copies of awards, etc. that feature them.

All of this information has to go in a folder with pockets and prongs. Then it must be delivered to a local lodge (closest to the applicant's home) by Friday. The Pony had his packet completed by Tuesday. No waiting until the last minute for him! He said a girl and a guy in his class were also applying. Except the girl had another deadline to meet which was more important, so she didn't think she would have hers ready. And the other kid plays sports.

"Remind him, Pony, of the deadline. He might have trouble getting his turned in on time."

Farmer H told me where the lodge was. He used to live near it. He said we could probably drop it by there any time, but to call and ask. "There should be a bartender there all the time. In the bar."

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was skeptical. "All the time? Surely they don't start drinking in the morning! Besides, we can't get there until after school. And The Pony has an appointment this afternoon, and has to work at the blood drive Wednesday night until 6:00."

"Is The Pony giving blood?"

"Um. NO! That would be like helping people. Isn't it enough that he's forced to hand out snacks to the donors for NHS? I'll call the lodge and ask when a good time is to bring the application."

And I did. Except nobody answered all day. Even after 4:00. Farmer H was taking The Pony to his appointment. So he said they would swing by there on the way home. "Tell him that if his buddy is done with his application, we can drop it off for him."

That trip was for naught. Nobody was around to take the application. It was bingo night. But a guy said to bring it back Wednesday. That they had their regular meeting at 7:00. Wednesday would be good.

So...Wednesday evening I left The Pony handing out snacks. Which he appeared to be doing by sitting at a table and waiting for a poor donor depleted of blood to stagger over and ask for a snack. He had come to my classroom to get his application folder. The agreement was that he would put it in his locker until Farmer H got there. However, he came to get it, and had it sitting on the blood snack table in front of him. With orange juice and water all around. I shudder to recall the sight even now.

I got home before Farmer H had left to pick up The Pony. He came home to feed his animals and admire his themed shanties. So there I was in the La-Z-Boy, Farmer H on the long couch, chatting about The Pony when I said, "WHAT TIME ARE YOU LEAVING TO PICK HIM UP?"

"In a few minutes."

"A few minutes! He's done at 6:00. It's 5:40 already!"

"It only takes 15 minutes to get there."

Let the record show that it takes 10 minutes to get to town to the gas station chicken store. It takes 10 minutes to get to the bowling alley. Newmentia is two-and-a-half towns over from there!

"Bull. It takes me 40 minutes, one-way."

"It takes you 40 minutes to get anywhere. I take the highway."

"The highway is only three miles of your journey. It takes longer than 5 minutes to get to Newmentia from the bowling alley! Even by the highway, it's another 15 minutes, minimum! And you sit here arguing with me instead of leaving to pick up The Pony. You need to get that application to the lodge before that meeting starts at 7:00, or nobody will be there to take it. And it looks like they won't be around every day in the bar."

"All right. You always get so excited."

Somebody has to light a fire under him. The Pony is lucky he didn't have to walk.

Let the record show that the application was handed over to a guy in the parking lot who said he was going to the meeting, and he would take it in.

Let's hope he wasn't just looking for bingo and a drink.

Putting His Best Hoof Forward

Way back when The Pony was just a knobby-kneed colt, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, in her infinite wisdom, decided he should attend his first day of school.

It was the summer before his kindergarten year. Elementia had a booming summer school business. They offered fun classes and enrichment activities for students who were operating at grade level, along with remedial services half the day for those who were not. The #1 son, ready to enter 3rd Grade in the fall, asked to attend. The Pony was a bit apprehensive about his first year, so Mrs. HM explained that he could also go to school, become familiar with his surroundings and the routine, and have a bit of a head start when regular classes resumed. The Pony was okay with that.

The first day dawned. Mrs. HM laid out clothing for each son. She went to make herself presentable in order to walk The Pony inside, and not be one of those moms in a bathrobe and hair curlers. Not that she even owned a bathrobe. Or hair curlers.

When she picked the boys up after school, it seemed as though all had gone well. The #1 son chattered about his activities. The Pony, when he got a chance, extolled the benefits of the playground equipment. He did mention that he did not care for the school lunch. And that he didn't understand why HE had to miss five minutes of recess for stomping on peas by the cafeteria trash can, when that other boy had started it.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom checked her answering machine upon arriving back at the Mansion. That was curious. A message from the school nurse that The Pony had fallen off the monkey bars, but that he appeared to be okay. She rounded up The Pony to inquire about the details.

"Oh. I might have a big bruise on my butt. Here. Look and see. The nurse looked. She said it was okay to look at my butt. Because she's a nurse. But that I should never let anybody else look at my butt. Except my mom and dad." He bent over, as if Mrs. HM could see through his shorts.

"Here. Stand up. Let me see." Mrs. HM pulled back the waistband of The Pony's stretchy shorts and cartoon-imprinted briefs. Yes. A bruise was forming on the right side of the tailbone area. "Wait a minute! Why are you wearing TWO pairs of underwear?"

"You laid them out for me this morning."

"I laid out your shorts, your shirt, and ONE pair of underwear."

"Uh huh."

"Then why do you have on TWO?"

"You never said to take the other pair off."

"Great. Now the school nurse thinks you wear TWO pairs of underwear! Oh, well. Does your butt hurt?"

"No."

"I guess not. Wearing TWO pairs of underwear gave you extra padding."

The next day, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom stopped to talk to the nurse when she dropped off The Pony.

"Did you get my message?"

"Yeah. After I got back home. You must have called after I left to pick up the boys."

"I wanted you to know that he fell, and that I saw him in my office. Just in case he talked about me looking at his butt."

"He's fine. I can't believe he wore TWO pairs of underwear. He normally does not. You must have thought that was really odd."

"Honey, if you only knew. At least The Pony was WEARING underwear!"

Let the record show that The Pony will probably not hearken back to this day during his valedictorian address.