The Pony has been in a writing frenzy lately. He was pounding the laptop during our trip to the bank this morning. For some reason he was researching lasers, and sharing facts about red and blue laser beams with me.
To keep up my end of the conversation, I shared that yesterday, after we saw the bad striping job done by the highway department, I actually came upon two of the striping trucks. I had left The Pony at his grandma's house while she and I went catting around. "Remember how those lines were too narrow, leaving a big section of pavement at the edge of the road? Well, those trucks were only driving about 10 mph, and they were not even striping at the time. The lane was so narrow that the highway trucks that painted the stripes could hardly fit between them. I think that qualifies as irony. Doesn't it? I never could understand what that meant."
"Like a crab, you were not born with an innate sense of irony. At least according to SpongeBob."
I had to laugh. "Believe it or not, that's not the first time I've been compared to a crab."
Maybe I should write one of those All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten books about my boys' education. I could call it Everything They Know They Learned From Cartoons.
When the #1 son was not even in preschool yet, he told me something was a mirage. "Wait a minute. Do you even know what that is? A mirage?"
"Uh huh. Something you see that's not there. I saw it on Scooby Doo. He was in the desert and saw a lake, but when he got there it was just sand." Yeah. #1 has always been advanced in the vocabulary department. His Parents As Teachers contact said he talked like a little adult.
Another day, #1 asked if I had ever been to the moon. "No. I haven't been to the moon. I don't have a rocket, and I'm not an astronaut."
"Mom. All you need is a rope and a tree. You bend over the tree, tie it down with a rope, get on it, and cut the rope. Then you go to the moon. I saw it on Looney Tunes."
If only life, and the concept of irony, were so simple.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Enough Cookies, Already!
The reason nothing ever gets done around here is because my life is like that mouse who became famous for getting a cookie.
I sat down to write a transaction in the checkbook this morning, and discovered that I had recorded the current balance instead of a direct deposit last Friday. A mere difference of $6000. Not like that would come back to bite me in the butt.
I asked the just-risen #1 son if he had a correction pen. He gave me a Bic Wite-Out, which is a cinnamon babka to me, preferring PaperMate Liquid Paper as my go-to coverup. Of course Bic was cantankerous, flood or drought, no smooth glossing over as desired in my checkbook register.
While re-balancing, #1 asked me to make him breakfast. I offered a frozen sausage biscuit, which he could easily have microwaved himself, but which he said, after inhaling it, "Why should I do it when I can get you to do it for me?"
I returned to the scene of the checkbook debacle to fold clothes from the full laundry basket, which had been waiting patiently until finances were finagled. There I sat down and arose quickly, because I had spied something in Farmer H's recliner seat as I was plopping.
I picked up the offending matter, muttering, "What has he left in here NOW? It's not as bad as the banana peel he stuffed down the side of the chair. But I can't believe I didn't notice it when I was on the automated phone with the bank."
#1 butted in. "What? What are you talking about? I'm making my college shopping list. I can't concentrate." He came to investigate.
"THAT! Right there! That's what I'm talking about. It looks like...wait a minute! It looks like a piece of biscuit. Did you sit here while I was in the kitchen?"
"Yeah. I was hoping you would go on blaming Dad." He shoved his shopping list under my nose to see if I could think of anything he needed. Then he fetched his laptop and started showing off a new gadget he got last week that makes weird pattens from your hand movements. Which distracted me from making his college shopping list, and folding laundry.
At the bottom of the laundry basket, I had an extra single sock to keep the regular seven company. But don't worry, because when I went to throw in a load of clothes after my shower, I found its mate on the floor of my bathroom.
The shower had been planned all morning, but was put off until I brushed sweet, sweet-but-matted Juno, who was nowhere to be found on the porch. So I brushed Tank, all the while telling him, "You know, I don't really even like you, but you're the only dog I could catch, and who knew you had loose hairs down in you beagley coat." He did not hold it against me, our little tete-a-tete. That darn Ann would not come near me, so I had to trap her against the front wall of #1's room to take a few swipes. Then Juno came running across the wide expanse from the BARn, getting her no-longer-silky but dusty matted long hair soaking wet with radioactive rain. She rubbed all against my pajama legs begging for a brushing. A few swipes showed me that a wet dog is no grooming picnic.
I went to get into the shower and saw that I needed a new bar of soap. Then found the sock mate while gathering clothes for washing. I tossed in that load, meaning to put it in the dryer before going to town for my 44 oz. Diet Coke. I went back to #1's list, only to be telephonically harassed by a collection company who calls here all the time for two people who are not us. While hanging up on that recording, my cell phone rang in the kitchen. I called to The Pony to grab it, but he was too late. While he was bringing it to me, the house phone rang again with Farmer H asking about his load of gravel #1 was supposed to get. Which he got, while refusing to bring me a 44 oz. Diet Coke while he was in town.
As I checked Frig to see what was for lunch, I noticed that Farmer H had put last night's leftover vegetable beef soup in a dirty container and back into Frig. It's not that the container was dirty, dirty. It was soapy dirty. I had rinsed it out with soapy water, and left a bit in the bottom to soak out a stain. Since it looked clean even though it was sitting in the needs-to-be-washed area, Farmer H decided not to bend at the waist and grab an identical container from the corner cabinet by the sink.
I roped The Pony into going to town with me. But first I sent him out to the porch to dump the soup for the dogs. He came back complaining about being in the radioactive rain scraping it out. To which I informed him that he should have put it ON the porch, not OVER the rail, because the dogs would now go around back to eat it, while soaking up radioactive rain. He countered that he heard Farmer H yell at me last night for tossing chicken wing bones onto the porch for the dogs, rather than putting them in the dog food pans on the other side of the laundry room. Who puts chicken bones in the dog dish, I ask, assuming there are still people like me who see nothing wrong with feeding dogs chicken bones, since dogs have been eating chickens for thousands of years, and not leaving the bones behind because they fear a choking incident.
The #1 son called to ask if he could use my debit card, which I had given him to buy college supplies at The Devil's Playground, to buy fast food for lunch. I declared that I do not have a debit card so I can check 5000 transactions every month, and that he would just have to spend his own money and hope for reimbursement by the First Hillmomba Bank of Mom.
We got back from town, and I remembered that I had not put the clothes in the dryer. I washed up the waiting dishes. Then I had to make myself a tasty salad for lunch, which meant that I didn't sit down to lunch until 2:00, to which The Pony said, "You should have got something in town."
No sooner had I started making the salad than a man called to say Farmer H's new breather was in and he could pick it up by 4:30. Then he called back at 4:20, asking for Farmer H's cell phone number, because as he left the store with his breather, the directions fell out.
By then it was time to make supper, and after that I discovered about 15 gnats in the sink of the basement NASCAR bathroom, so I waged a bleach battle with them. Then I took time to blog, and #1 called to ask if he can buy himself some semi-college stuff off Amazon, and will I pay half...
Summer is supposed to be a time for teachers to relax, right?
I sat down to write a transaction in the checkbook this morning, and discovered that I had recorded the current balance instead of a direct deposit last Friday. A mere difference of $6000. Not like that would come back to bite me in the butt.
I asked the just-risen #1 son if he had a correction pen. He gave me a Bic Wite-Out, which is a cinnamon babka to me, preferring PaperMate Liquid Paper as my go-to coverup. Of course Bic was cantankerous, flood or drought, no smooth glossing over as desired in my checkbook register.
While re-balancing, #1 asked me to make him breakfast. I offered a frozen sausage biscuit, which he could easily have microwaved himself, but which he said, after inhaling it, "Why should I do it when I can get you to do it for me?"
I returned to the scene of the checkbook debacle to fold clothes from the full laundry basket, which had been waiting patiently until finances were finagled. There I sat down and arose quickly, because I had spied something in Farmer H's recliner seat as I was plopping.
I picked up the offending matter, muttering, "What has he left in here NOW? It's not as bad as the banana peel he stuffed down the side of the chair. But I can't believe I didn't notice it when I was on the automated phone with the bank."
#1 butted in. "What? What are you talking about? I'm making my college shopping list. I can't concentrate." He came to investigate.
"THAT! Right there! That's what I'm talking about. It looks like...wait a minute! It looks like a piece of biscuit. Did you sit here while I was in the kitchen?"
"Yeah. I was hoping you would go on blaming Dad." He shoved his shopping list under my nose to see if I could think of anything he needed. Then he fetched his laptop and started showing off a new gadget he got last week that makes weird pattens from your hand movements. Which distracted me from making his college shopping list, and folding laundry.
At the bottom of the laundry basket, I had an extra single sock to keep the regular seven company. But don't worry, because when I went to throw in a load of clothes after my shower, I found its mate on the floor of my bathroom.
The shower had been planned all morning, but was put off until I brushed sweet, sweet-but-matted Juno, who was nowhere to be found on the porch. So I brushed Tank, all the while telling him, "You know, I don't really even like you, but you're the only dog I could catch, and who knew you had loose hairs down in you beagley coat." He did not hold it against me, our little tete-a-tete. That darn Ann would not come near me, so I had to trap her against the front wall of #1's room to take a few swipes. Then Juno came running across the wide expanse from the BARn, getting her no-longer-silky but dusty matted long hair soaking wet with radioactive rain. She rubbed all against my pajama legs begging for a brushing. A few swipes showed me that a wet dog is no grooming picnic.
I went to get into the shower and saw that I needed a new bar of soap. Then found the sock mate while gathering clothes for washing. I tossed in that load, meaning to put it in the dryer before going to town for my 44 oz. Diet Coke. I went back to #1's list, only to be telephonically harassed by a collection company who calls here all the time for two people who are not us. While hanging up on that recording, my cell phone rang in the kitchen. I called to The Pony to grab it, but he was too late. While he was bringing it to me, the house phone rang again with Farmer H asking about his load of gravel #1 was supposed to get. Which he got, while refusing to bring me a 44 oz. Diet Coke while he was in town.
As I checked Frig to see what was for lunch, I noticed that Farmer H had put last night's leftover vegetable beef soup in a dirty container and back into Frig. It's not that the container was dirty, dirty. It was soapy dirty. I had rinsed it out with soapy water, and left a bit in the bottom to soak out a stain. Since it looked clean even though it was sitting in the needs-to-be-washed area, Farmer H decided not to bend at the waist and grab an identical container from the corner cabinet by the sink.
I roped The Pony into going to town with me. But first I sent him out to the porch to dump the soup for the dogs. He came back complaining about being in the radioactive rain scraping it out. To which I informed him that he should have put it ON the porch, not OVER the rail, because the dogs would now go around back to eat it, while soaking up radioactive rain. He countered that he heard Farmer H yell at me last night for tossing chicken wing bones onto the porch for the dogs, rather than putting them in the dog food pans on the other side of the laundry room. Who puts chicken bones in the dog dish, I ask, assuming there are still people like me who see nothing wrong with feeding dogs chicken bones, since dogs have been eating chickens for thousands of years, and not leaving the bones behind because they fear a choking incident.
The #1 son called to ask if he could use my debit card, which I had given him to buy college supplies at The Devil's Playground, to buy fast food for lunch. I declared that I do not have a debit card so I can check 5000 transactions every month, and that he would just have to spend his own money and hope for reimbursement by the First Hillmomba Bank of Mom.
We got back from town, and I remembered that I had not put the clothes in the dryer. I washed up the waiting dishes. Then I had to make myself a tasty salad for lunch, which meant that I didn't sit down to lunch until 2:00, to which The Pony said, "You should have got something in town."
No sooner had I started making the salad than a man called to say Farmer H's new breather was in and he could pick it up by 4:30. Then he called back at 4:20, asking for Farmer H's cell phone number, because as he left the store with his breather, the directions fell out.
By then it was time to make supper, and after that I discovered about 15 gnats in the sink of the basement NASCAR bathroom, so I waged a bleach battle with them. Then I took time to blog, and #1 called to ask if he can buy himself some semi-college stuff off Amazon, and will I pay half...
Summer is supposed to be a time for teachers to relax, right?
Monday, July 29, 2013
Good Thing It's FREE Public Education
This morning The Pony was lolling around the Mansion living room while I gathered up some bills to mail. He heard a mention of Casablanca on TV.
"Hey! Casablanca! That means WHITE HOUSE! It just hit me. All the times I heard that, and didn't realize what it meant!"
It's good to know that year of freshman Spanish paid off.
"Hey! Casablanca! That means WHITE HOUSE! It just hit me. All the times I heard that, and didn't realize what it meant!"
It's good to know that year of freshman Spanish paid off.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Steel Pipes Cut Deep
You would think that picking up the mail would be a simple task. One that needs no rocket-scientist experience, no MENSA membership card, no Olympic athlete physique. And if that's what you think, YOU WOULD BE WRONG, BY CRACKY!
The Pony stayed behind while I navigated the new Hillmomba Autobahn detour route to town for my daily 44 oz. Diet Coke. Today was a case of not the struggle, but the triumph. The trip itself was fairly uneventful. I only had to shake my curmudgeonly fist of outrage a couple of times. I nabbed that magical elixir in record time. But since The Pony was swishing his tail in the basement paddock rather than riding behind me and trotting out to get the mail, I had to do it myself.
I know how that husband felt, back in the 70s, when he asked his wifey for a beer, and she hollered from the kitchen, "GET IT YOURSELF, BOB!" Except my name isn't Bob. And I don't drink. So I didn't want a beer. But other than that, I know exactly how he felt.
First of all, a kindly anonymous donor paid for about ten loads of gravel to be put down on our road. I don't know the official name for this size gravel particle. Whereas the standard gray driveway gravel we get is called two-inch clean by the gravel dealers, this stuff must be in the double digits. I swear, it is HUGE. Every time I drive over it, the word riprap comes to mind. You know riprap. The rocks that line dams and levees and lakes, where you don't want any erosion going on. When we drive on our gravel road now, there arises such a clatter that my Sirius XM Seventies can hardly be heard. A seasoned mountain goat would be hard-pressed to take two steps over these particles without spraining a fetlock.
Secondly, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not enjoy a noontime hike. Gone are the days when I could whip a U-turn, pull T-Hoe over to the wrong side of the road, and open the door of EmBee the steel-pipe mailbox from my driver's seat. The new Hillmomba Autobahn put an end to that practice. So I had to maneuver myself over those bonebreakers to even get to the blacktop edge of the new Hillmomba Autobahn.
Thirdly, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is no Frogger. Yet super-duper, George Costanza Frogger skillz are needed to get across the new Hillmomba Autobahn without taking a direct hit from a septic-tank sucker or a 15-roll hay wagon towed by a dually. I proceeded, I listed to port, I receded, I sidled starboard, and I arrived at EmBee's wooden, multi-mailbox hut. I had to step aside for a moment, as a passing Hillmomba Autobahn missile screamed past, blowing my hair like the hipster tie of that guy in a chair listening to a Hitachi speaker.
Fourthly, the carrier had rammed a large envelope addressed to Genius deep into the recesses of EmBee's green metal tube innards. I had to balance an eclectic mix of postcard electric bill, two #10 business envelopes, an Entertainment Weekly, and an internet service half-size cardboard flyer in my right hand while digging out that big envelope from the Missouri Secondary School Principals' Association with my left. It must have been a certificate of some kind from his Top 100 Scholars fete.
Back at the Mansion, I called The Pony as T-Hoe chugged down the driveway. He cheerfully bore my burdens into the house. I washed my hands of the dust of sweet, sweet Juno, who is a dirty girl in the summertime. She revels in a daily dustbath, and snoozes under the $1000 Caravan. While prepping my 44 oz. Diet Coke for downstairs delivery by double-cupping, I saw a stain on the damp paper towel I had just used to dry my hands. The Pony had squirted out some ketchup for a corn dog I brought him from the gas station chicken store. I mentally chastised him for cleaning up his mess with my hand towel. I might have used it to wipe off the side of my Diet Coke cup. Because there's nothing Mrs. Hillbilly Mom loves more than saving the environment one paper towel at a time, unless it's her 44 oz. Diet Coke. I said nothing, though, because that little fella is such a help to me. I said nothing. Until...
"HEY! That's BLOOD all over my paper towel!"
I searched myself for entry wounds. There. On the back of my hand. It was bleeding like a stuck leech in a Coumadin factory. EmBee had gouged me good with her screwy snaggletooth. The one that juts from her circular door flap, to mesh with the magnet at the top of her pipe-hole opening. The Pony ran to get me a bandaid. He hates to see me hurt. And to see blood flowing at the kitchen counter.
Life is fraught with danger here on the frontier.
The Pony stayed behind while I navigated the new Hillmomba Autobahn detour route to town for my daily 44 oz. Diet Coke. Today was a case of not the struggle, but the triumph. The trip itself was fairly uneventful. I only had to shake my curmudgeonly fist of outrage a couple of times. I nabbed that magical elixir in record time. But since The Pony was swishing his tail in the basement paddock rather than riding behind me and trotting out to get the mail, I had to do it myself.
I know how that husband felt, back in the 70s, when he asked his wifey for a beer, and she hollered from the kitchen, "GET IT YOURSELF, BOB!" Except my name isn't Bob. And I don't drink. So I didn't want a beer. But other than that, I know exactly how he felt.
First of all, a kindly anonymous donor paid for about ten loads of gravel to be put down on our road. I don't know the official name for this size gravel particle. Whereas the standard gray driveway gravel we get is called two-inch clean by the gravel dealers, this stuff must be in the double digits. I swear, it is HUGE. Every time I drive over it, the word riprap comes to mind. You know riprap. The rocks that line dams and levees and lakes, where you don't want any erosion going on. When we drive on our gravel road now, there arises such a clatter that my Sirius XM Seventies can hardly be heard. A seasoned mountain goat would be hard-pressed to take two steps over these particles without spraining a fetlock.
Secondly, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not enjoy a noontime hike. Gone are the days when I could whip a U-turn, pull T-Hoe over to the wrong side of the road, and open the door of EmBee the steel-pipe mailbox from my driver's seat. The new Hillmomba Autobahn put an end to that practice. So I had to maneuver myself over those bonebreakers to even get to the blacktop edge of the new Hillmomba Autobahn.
Thirdly, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is no Frogger. Yet super-duper, George Costanza Frogger skillz are needed to get across the new Hillmomba Autobahn without taking a direct hit from a septic-tank sucker or a 15-roll hay wagon towed by a dually. I proceeded, I listed to port, I receded, I sidled starboard, and I arrived at EmBee's wooden, multi-mailbox hut. I had to step aside for a moment, as a passing Hillmomba Autobahn missile screamed past, blowing my hair like the hipster tie of that guy in a chair listening to a Hitachi speaker.
Fourthly, the carrier had rammed a large envelope addressed to Genius deep into the recesses of EmBee's green metal tube innards. I had to balance an eclectic mix of postcard electric bill, two #10 business envelopes, an Entertainment Weekly, and an internet service half-size cardboard flyer in my right hand while digging out that big envelope from the Missouri Secondary School Principals' Association with my left. It must have been a certificate of some kind from his Top 100 Scholars fete.
Back at the Mansion, I called The Pony as T-Hoe chugged down the driveway. He cheerfully bore my burdens into the house. I washed my hands of the dust of sweet, sweet Juno, who is a dirty girl in the summertime. She revels in a daily dustbath, and snoozes under the $1000 Caravan. While prepping my 44 oz. Diet Coke for downstairs delivery by double-cupping, I saw a stain on the damp paper towel I had just used to dry my hands. The Pony had squirted out some ketchup for a corn dog I brought him from the gas station chicken store. I mentally chastised him for cleaning up his mess with my hand towel. I might have used it to wipe off the side of my Diet Coke cup. Because there's nothing Mrs. Hillbilly Mom loves more than saving the environment one paper towel at a time, unless it's her 44 oz. Diet Coke. I said nothing, though, because that little fella is such a help to me. I said nothing. Until...
"HEY! That's BLOOD all over my paper towel!"
I searched myself for entry wounds. There. On the back of my hand. It was bleeding like a stuck leech in a Coumadin factory. EmBee had gouged me good with her screwy snaggletooth. The one that juts from her circular door flap, to mesh with the magnet at the top of her pipe-hole opening. The Pony ran to get me a bandaid. He hates to see me hurt. And to see blood flowing at the kitchen counter.
Life is fraught with danger here on the frontier.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
The Jack Of All Trades Does Some Trading
Yesterday, The Pony and I picked up my mom for a ride to pay some bills. He wanted to leave his precious laptop in her house, to soak up her high-speed internet and load an alpha version of one of his games. We took her a brown banana. Yes, the pickin's were slim. We were supposed to take her two cake plates that Farmer H bought her at the auction Thursday night, but we forgot. However, while in town, we bought her an order of Captain D's breadsticks. In return, she gave me five dollars.
If we had taken the cake plates, I'm sure she would have kicked in more.
The thing about the cake plates is that Mom told me a couple years ago that she doesn't need any more cake plates. She likes them and all, but she has no room. One of her china cabinets is already full of them. Of course I relayed that message to Farmer H. But like the little banty eggs that Mom supposedly loves, Farmer H makes it his mission to shower her with all that he finds.
Sometimes Mom gives Farmer H cash, but sometimes she barters. He does not expect anything from her in return for his generosity. In fact, one thing that Farmer H is exceptionally good at is the giving of his time and effort to selflessly assist the aged. He loves to listen to their stories, and tell his own. He sees no reason for them to pay somebody for services when he can help out for free. The only reason Mom hired that handyman to put in her basement insulation is because she never mentioned the job to Farmer H. He would have done it in a heartbeat. He likes to stay busy.
Now Mom needs some trees trimmed at the edge of the road, so people in her driveway can see if there's oncoming traffic before pulling out. She said that she used to do it herself, using a rake to pull down the leafy limbs and hold them while she cut it with a long scissor-like tool in the other hand. She does not want to do it herself now, because the land slopes down steeply from the road, and she doesn't want to slip.
She is offering a six-foot section of copper pipe.
I am sure Farmer H will dash on over there as soon as he loads the cake plates. He likes to be needed.
If we had taken the cake plates, I'm sure she would have kicked in more.
The thing about the cake plates is that Mom told me a couple years ago that she doesn't need any more cake plates. She likes them and all, but she has no room. One of her china cabinets is already full of them. Of course I relayed that message to Farmer H. But like the little banty eggs that Mom supposedly loves, Farmer H makes it his mission to shower her with all that he finds.
Sometimes Mom gives Farmer H cash, but sometimes she barters. He does not expect anything from her in return for his generosity. In fact, one thing that Farmer H is exceptionally good at is the giving of his time and effort to selflessly assist the aged. He loves to listen to their stories, and tell his own. He sees no reason for them to pay somebody for services when he can help out for free. The only reason Mom hired that handyman to put in her basement insulation is because she never mentioned the job to Farmer H. He would have done it in a heartbeat. He likes to stay busy.
Now Mom needs some trees trimmed at the edge of the road, so people in her driveway can see if there's oncoming traffic before pulling out. She said that she used to do it herself, using a rake to pull down the leafy limbs and hold them while she cut it with a long scissor-like tool in the other hand. She does not want to do it herself now, because the land slopes down steeply from the road, and she doesn't want to slip.
She is offering a six-foot section of copper pipe.
I am sure Farmer H will dash on over there as soon as he loads the cake plates. He likes to be needed.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Hillmomba Ain't In Kansas Anymore
Holy moly! Hillmomba is undergoing a crime wave!
Thursday morning, as I sat in my front window firing up my internet connection, I spied a parade of vehicles churning up dust on our gravel road. Not the usual neighbor cars lagging behind so as not to founder on their predecessor's dust. A black club cab truck pulling a closed-in white trailer was first. I assumed that it was a construction worker. They carry their fancy tools in such trailers. Next came a couple of SUVs, a van, a couple of white cars. There was a line of eight cars total. Again, I assumed it was construction workers on their way to a site. I wondered which of our neighbors were getting renovations. This is not a through road, but a kind of loop that will eventually take you back toward the exit of our private compound.
Two hours later, I was off to town to pick up The Pony, who had spent the night with his grandma. On the county blacktop road, which is now a major detour due to bridge work on the lettered county highway, I encountered a conga line of odd vehicles. I know this is a detour now, but my major issues have been over-wide dually trucks, and hay trailers. This procession was led by a backhoe, followed by a truck pulling a Porta-Potty, followed by a big septic tank sucking truck, followed by a dump truck with its bed raised. I pulled off on a gravel side road entrance to give them room on the curve. Some days are smooth sailing, and some days Even Steven yanks my chain.
Nothing eventful happened all day. The Pony let the goats out later than usual, having just returned home in the afternoon. It was too cool for swimming in Poolio. At 4:45 I ascended from my dark basement lair to make big sandwiches for supper. As I was sawing through some wheat sub rolls, Farmer H breezed in the door. "I heard on the radio they found a body in the septic tank of the log house. I talked to my guy up the road, and he said they've been looking for that missing person since December. Said the sheriff, the FBI, and the coroner were up there digging out the septic tank all day. I'm going to check on it. Supper can wait." Farmer H took off to pump Guy for more information. Apparently, I had witnessed the march of the crime scene vehicles.
Seriously, people. I've been in that log house. We've picked up a woman who slid her car off the snowy county road and taken her to that house. That house is where Farmer H's acquaintance lived who butchered things in his metal shed. The one Farmer H was going take one of his "wild hogs" to for butchering a couple years ago. It's less than a mile from the Mansion. Probably about a half-mile if you're a flying crow. Now the thing is, this house has been vacant for a while. But nobody should know anything about it unless they have associations with people up in here. So it's kind of unsettling.
Farmer H returned with the latest news from Guy. Wednesday night around 9:00, Guy heard knocking at his door. His dogs were going crazy. Ours were going crazy in solidarity with their canine compatriots. Guy had already gone to bed. He's an early riser. He wondered who would be up in here that late at night, since peddlers are not allowed. He thought of getting his gun just in case, but he looked out his peephole and saw two guys in suits. He was not happy, but he figured it was just the Mormons making a call. Never mind that the Mormons never come up in here because the gravel is hard on their bicycle tires. Guy opened the door, and a suit said, "FBI. We need to ask you a few questions." Who knew they talked just like the movies? Guy said he'd have to see some identification before he'd let them in. They produced. They had heard Guy was acquainted with the property owner. Guy said no, it was his bud up the road, who had gone to school with the property owner. So the FBI followed his lead.
There I was later Thursday evening, complacently watching Big Brother, when a news break on commercial showed an aerial view of our compound! On the early news, Channel 2 showed the log house. From ground level. Who let them up in this private compound, I wonder. Can reporters go anywhere they please? The issue I had was the voice-over saying the owner declined to speak on camera, "...before speeding away in this silver truck." It showed the guy driving away from his own property, in our private association. I didn't notice if it showed his license plate. The thing is, why should they expect him to comment on what grisly find was made in his septic tank? He does not live there. The property is vacant. He has only owned it for a couple of months. The previous butchering owner has not lived there for about 18 months. The next-door dude was interviewed. He's the one who patches our road holes with dirt from the creek. At least he represented himself well, speaking proper English and calling the reporter sir.
I will be glad when the authorities get to the bottom of this septic tank mess. Word on the gravel road is that a local tattoo artist went missing in December 18, and that the whole situation smacks of a drug deal gone bad. Pertinent details about the body are also being bandied about, which I will omit, and simply say rope, duct tape, and broken bones. Hometown hillbilly scuttlebutt. The info may already be out by the time I let this publish. But as of 11:00 Thursday night, details were still pending.
Hillmomba ain't in Kansas anymore.
Thursday morning, as I sat in my front window firing up my internet connection, I spied a parade of vehicles churning up dust on our gravel road. Not the usual neighbor cars lagging behind so as not to founder on their predecessor's dust. A black club cab truck pulling a closed-in white trailer was first. I assumed that it was a construction worker. They carry their fancy tools in such trailers. Next came a couple of SUVs, a van, a couple of white cars. There was a line of eight cars total. Again, I assumed it was construction workers on their way to a site. I wondered which of our neighbors were getting renovations. This is not a through road, but a kind of loop that will eventually take you back toward the exit of our private compound.
Two hours later, I was off to town to pick up The Pony, who had spent the night with his grandma. On the county blacktop road, which is now a major detour due to bridge work on the lettered county highway, I encountered a conga line of odd vehicles. I know this is a detour now, but my major issues have been over-wide dually trucks, and hay trailers. This procession was led by a backhoe, followed by a truck pulling a Porta-Potty, followed by a big septic tank sucking truck, followed by a dump truck with its bed raised. I pulled off on a gravel side road entrance to give them room on the curve. Some days are smooth sailing, and some days Even Steven yanks my chain.
Nothing eventful happened all day. The Pony let the goats out later than usual, having just returned home in the afternoon. It was too cool for swimming in Poolio. At 4:45 I ascended from my dark basement lair to make big sandwiches for supper. As I was sawing through some wheat sub rolls, Farmer H breezed in the door. "I heard on the radio they found a body in the septic tank of the log house. I talked to my guy up the road, and he said they've been looking for that missing person since December. Said the sheriff, the FBI, and the coroner were up there digging out the septic tank all day. I'm going to check on it. Supper can wait." Farmer H took off to pump Guy for more information. Apparently, I had witnessed the march of the crime scene vehicles.
Seriously, people. I've been in that log house. We've picked up a woman who slid her car off the snowy county road and taken her to that house. That house is where Farmer H's acquaintance lived who butchered things in his metal shed. The one Farmer H was going take one of his "wild hogs" to for butchering a couple years ago. It's less than a mile from the Mansion. Probably about a half-mile if you're a flying crow. Now the thing is, this house has been vacant for a while. But nobody should know anything about it unless they have associations with people up in here. So it's kind of unsettling.
Farmer H returned with the latest news from Guy. Wednesday night around 9:00, Guy heard knocking at his door. His dogs were going crazy. Ours were going crazy in solidarity with their canine compatriots. Guy had already gone to bed. He's an early riser. He wondered who would be up in here that late at night, since peddlers are not allowed. He thought of getting his gun just in case, but he looked out his peephole and saw two guys in suits. He was not happy, but he figured it was just the Mormons making a call. Never mind that the Mormons never come up in here because the gravel is hard on their bicycle tires. Guy opened the door, and a suit said, "FBI. We need to ask you a few questions." Who knew they talked just like the movies? Guy said he'd have to see some identification before he'd let them in. They produced. They had heard Guy was acquainted with the property owner. Guy said no, it was his bud up the road, who had gone to school with the property owner. So the FBI followed his lead.
There I was later Thursday evening, complacently watching Big Brother, when a news break on commercial showed an aerial view of our compound! On the early news, Channel 2 showed the log house. From ground level. Who let them up in this private compound, I wonder. Can reporters go anywhere they please? The issue I had was the voice-over saying the owner declined to speak on camera, "...before speeding away in this silver truck." It showed the guy driving away from his own property, in our private association. I didn't notice if it showed his license plate. The thing is, why should they expect him to comment on what grisly find was made in his septic tank? He does not live there. The property is vacant. He has only owned it for a couple of months. The previous butchering owner has not lived there for about 18 months. The next-door dude was interviewed. He's the one who patches our road holes with dirt from the creek. At least he represented himself well, speaking proper English and calling the reporter sir.
I will be glad when the authorities get to the bottom of this septic tank mess. Word on the gravel road is that a local tattoo artist went missing in December 18, and that the whole situation smacks of a drug deal gone bad. Pertinent details about the body are also being bandied about, which I will omit, and simply say rope, duct tape, and broken bones. Hometown hillbilly scuttlebutt. The info may already be out by the time I let this publish. But as of 11:00 Thursday night, details were still pending.
Hillmomba ain't in Kansas anymore.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
The Devil Advocates
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom loves to play devil's advocate. That's because she has a devilish nature, and enjoys rousting the citizens of Hillmomba from their comfort zones. A recent incident in the news has set her naughty fingers to typing. Imagine the state of public opinion if the broken-in, run-down brogan was on the other foot.
Here's the story. I've read other accounts with added snippets of information, but this was the most thorough account in one article. A 59-year-old landowner in Crawford County confronted some float trip people about being on his property. The murky Missouri waterways law pretty much says that land covered at some time during the year by water is public property, fair game for floaters on a navigable waterway. That means that sandbars are not owned by private parties, but that their property rights start above the normal water line. A party of 40 (or 50, depending on which article) floaters were on their annual Meramec River outing. They pulled in on a sandbar so one of the guys could whiz. Whizzer himself admitted to stepping into the woods. Landowner Yosemite Sam waved his pistol at the varmint, and told the float trip group to get off his property. They argued that they were not leaving, because it wasn't his property. He told them they were trespassing, and to get out. "I have the power here!" he declared, waving his weapon. They declined. Yosemite Sam fired several warning shots into the air and into the ground. Whizzer, 24, and allegedly beered up, said, "Put down that gun and we'll see who has the power." He advanced toward Yosemite Sam. Another male floater picked up two rocks. A 48-year-old peacemaking floater stepped between Rocky and Yosemite Sam. To calm Sam down, according to Peacemaker's wife. "He went to the guy’s arm to try to stop him, but the guy jerked back and popped him in the face.” Peacemaker died on the way to the hospital. Yosemite Sam went and called the police and waited for them to arrive. He admitted to shooting Peacemaker.
Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not condone such a shooting. Yosemite Sam is cooling his heels in the county lockup, and will face murder charges. Let the court sort it out. No, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not condone such a shooting. There's no reason to ever shoot a person for arguing about your property boundaries and refusing to leave and advancing towards you. But she understands. Much in the way that comedian Chris Rock does not condone hitting women: "There's no reason to ever hit a woman. But I understand."
Yes, let's play devil's advocate and assume that the hillbilly brogan was on the other foot. A Topsider, perhaps. Because people are quick to belittle hillbillies these days. It's open season on hillbillies. They're all ignorant inbreds who wave guns all willy-nilly like...well...like Yosemite Sam. And they are all hopped up on meth, and mouth-breathe, and think every canoe trip is Burt Reynolds bringing his buddies to partake of Deliverance backwoods games. Oh, and they're unattractive, to boot.
So let's say that there's a dude named Biff Yuppie. He has inherited a lovely city mansion that sits on a thoroughfare used throughout the summer by hillbillies on their way from Hooterville to Beverly Hills. The hillbillies load up their Jed Clampett jalopies and chug along swilling moonshine. Because one can never really own moonshine, but only rent it, the hillbillies often stop to relieve themselves on Biff's lawn.
Biff does not like to see his hard-inherited property swarming with hillbillies all summer. Unfortunately, he can't legally do anything to them. They are entitled to pull their jalopies onto the sidewalk in front of his mansion. They can start fires there and cook up some possum stew, and pee and poop all across the front of his yard. That's because of the highway easement that allows public access from the center of the road to a specified number of feet onto Biff's mansion grounds.
The hillbillies do not always stay on the public portion. Biff has to clean up possum entrails, moonshine jugs, and piles of hillbilly poop from his lawn. He doesn't think it's fair for others to use "his" property as their own. His children can't even take their naps because of the sound of hillbillies clogging and banjoing all the livelong day. They have even set parts of Biff's yard on fire with carelessly-cleaned-out corncob pipes. Biff becomes obsessed with protecting his property proper. He gets a trained guard dog, a Doberman named Gunnar.
One Saturday afternoon, as hillbillies are whooping it up on Biff's front sidewalk, Biff sees a strapping young hillbilly peeing on his azaleas. Biff is a little on edge, having taken several snorts of cocaine to stay awake and observe the hillbilly goings-on all weekend. He grabs Gunnar, and charges out the front door to confront the Peethro Bodine. Biff is literally shaking in his madras shorts, Izod shirt, and Topsiders, he's so incensed. His flower bed IS his property! Peethro needs to be taught a lesson. Dirty hillbillies. Biff's mad as not-heaven, and he's not going to take it anymore.
Peethro runs back to the easement area tying his rope belt, rejoining the 39 or 49 members of his extended hillbilly family, where they are hoisting jugs of moonshine and hootin' and hollerin'. Biff marches toward the group. "You are trespassing. Get off my property." Gunnar lunges forward, teeth gnashing. "Get off my property, or I'll send my dog! I have the power here!"
The hillbillies refuse to leave. "This ain't your property. We ain't goin' nowhere." Peethro starts toward Biff. "Tie up your dog, and we'll see who has the power." Peethrine, his cousin, picks up two stepping stones. The family patriarch, Cletus, throws his ZZ Top beard over his shoulder, adjusts his overalls, and starts towards Biff. He reaches to grab the arm that holds Gunnar's collar, and in that instant, Biff releases Gunnar. "Sic 'im, boy!" Gunnar jumps up and bites off Cletus's face. Biff calls the authorities, and is arrested pending murder charges.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not condone siccing an attack dog on advancing, stone-armed, hillbilly, allegedly-moonshined-up, would-be trespassers with bad attitudes. But she understands.
Does anybody else?
Any line of reasoning is acceptable, except the trite: attack dogs don't kill people, people-sicced attack dogs kill people.
Here's the story. I've read other accounts with added snippets of information, but this was the most thorough account in one article. A 59-year-old landowner in Crawford County confronted some float trip people about being on his property. The murky Missouri waterways law pretty much says that land covered at some time during the year by water is public property, fair game for floaters on a navigable waterway. That means that sandbars are not owned by private parties, but that their property rights start above the normal water line. A party of 40 (or 50, depending on which article) floaters were on their annual Meramec River outing. They pulled in on a sandbar so one of the guys could whiz. Whizzer himself admitted to stepping into the woods. Landowner Yosemite Sam waved his pistol at the varmint, and told the float trip group to get off his property. They argued that they were not leaving, because it wasn't his property. He told them they were trespassing, and to get out. "I have the power here!" he declared, waving his weapon. They declined. Yosemite Sam fired several warning shots into the air and into the ground. Whizzer, 24, and allegedly beered up, said, "Put down that gun and we'll see who has the power." He advanced toward Yosemite Sam. Another male floater picked up two rocks. A 48-year-old peacemaking floater stepped between Rocky and Yosemite Sam. To calm Sam down, according to Peacemaker's wife. "He went to the guy’s arm to try to stop him, but the guy jerked back and popped him in the face.” Peacemaker died on the way to the hospital. Yosemite Sam went and called the police and waited for them to arrive. He admitted to shooting Peacemaker.
Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not condone such a shooting. Yosemite Sam is cooling his heels in the county lockup, and will face murder charges. Let the court sort it out. No, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not condone such a shooting. There's no reason to ever shoot a person for arguing about your property boundaries and refusing to leave and advancing towards you. But she understands. Much in the way that comedian Chris Rock does not condone hitting women: "There's no reason to ever hit a woman. But I understand."
Yes, let's play devil's advocate and assume that the hillbilly brogan was on the other foot. A Topsider, perhaps. Because people are quick to belittle hillbillies these days. It's open season on hillbillies. They're all ignorant inbreds who wave guns all willy-nilly like...well...like Yosemite Sam. And they are all hopped up on meth, and mouth-breathe, and think every canoe trip is Burt Reynolds bringing his buddies to partake of Deliverance backwoods games. Oh, and they're unattractive, to boot.
So let's say that there's a dude named Biff Yuppie. He has inherited a lovely city mansion that sits on a thoroughfare used throughout the summer by hillbillies on their way from Hooterville to Beverly Hills. The hillbillies load up their Jed Clampett jalopies and chug along swilling moonshine. Because one can never really own moonshine, but only rent it, the hillbillies often stop to relieve themselves on Biff's lawn.
Biff does not like to see his hard-inherited property swarming with hillbillies all summer. Unfortunately, he can't legally do anything to them. They are entitled to pull their jalopies onto the sidewalk in front of his mansion. They can start fires there and cook up some possum stew, and pee and poop all across the front of his yard. That's because of the highway easement that allows public access from the center of the road to a specified number of feet onto Biff's mansion grounds.
The hillbillies do not always stay on the public portion. Biff has to clean up possum entrails, moonshine jugs, and piles of hillbilly poop from his lawn. He doesn't think it's fair for others to use "his" property as their own. His children can't even take their naps because of the sound of hillbillies clogging and banjoing all the livelong day. They have even set parts of Biff's yard on fire with carelessly-cleaned-out corncob pipes. Biff becomes obsessed with protecting his property proper. He gets a trained guard dog, a Doberman named Gunnar.
One Saturday afternoon, as hillbillies are whooping it up on Biff's front sidewalk, Biff sees a strapping young hillbilly peeing on his azaleas. Biff is a little on edge, having taken several snorts of cocaine to stay awake and observe the hillbilly goings-on all weekend. He grabs Gunnar, and charges out the front door to confront the Peethro Bodine. Biff is literally shaking in his madras shorts, Izod shirt, and Topsiders, he's so incensed. His flower bed IS his property! Peethro needs to be taught a lesson. Dirty hillbillies. Biff's mad as not-heaven, and he's not going to take it anymore.
Peethro runs back to the easement area tying his rope belt, rejoining the 39 or 49 members of his extended hillbilly family, where they are hoisting jugs of moonshine and hootin' and hollerin'. Biff marches toward the group. "You are trespassing. Get off my property." Gunnar lunges forward, teeth gnashing. "Get off my property, or I'll send my dog! I have the power here!"
The hillbillies refuse to leave. "This ain't your property. We ain't goin' nowhere." Peethro starts toward Biff. "Tie up your dog, and we'll see who has the power." Peethrine, his cousin, picks up two stepping stones. The family patriarch, Cletus, throws his ZZ Top beard over his shoulder, adjusts his overalls, and starts towards Biff. He reaches to grab the arm that holds Gunnar's collar, and in that instant, Biff releases Gunnar. "Sic 'im, boy!" Gunnar jumps up and bites off Cletus's face. Biff calls the authorities, and is arrested pending murder charges.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not condone siccing an attack dog on advancing, stone-armed, hillbilly, allegedly-moonshined-up, would-be trespassers with bad attitudes. But she understands.
Does anybody else?
Any line of reasoning is acceptable, except the trite: attack dogs don't kill people, people-sicced attack dogs kill people.
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