My mom is at it again, pushing her slaw agenda.
I might have mentioned how The Pony and I dropped by Mom's house two afternoons this week, to bide our time until award ceremonies. Ever the hostess with the mostess slaw, Mom had refreshments ready when we arrived. The Pony is not a slaw aficionado, so Mom baked a pan of brownies for him. Then she heated up a flatbread cheese pizza. The Pony was in hog heaven.
Mom had warmed two chicken strips for me in her toaster oven. Where they found such large chickens to harvest strips the length of a 44 oz. Diet Coke refill cup I'll never know. As we entered the house, The Pony took off downstairs to the family room to set up his gaming computer. Mom walked me over to the counter to show off her provisions. The chicken warmed itself on the toaster oven tray. Beside the toaster oven sat a bag of potato rolls. And just in front of them was parked the pint of slaw. "Do you want some slaw? I set it out for you."
"No thanks, Mom. I'll just have the chicken. No rolls."
"Oh, do you want a Coke? I have a can. I can pour it over ice if you want."
"That's okay. I'll drink it out of the can."
"Here. Let me help you carry it downstairs to the table."
"I can get it. I'm fine."
Mom cut up The Pony's flatbread and carried it down to him with a plate of brownies, a can of Sprite under her arm. She spoils us. But not so much that she left her slaw on the counter. It was stowed away right after I declined to dine on it. She carried a TV tray over to set beside The Pony's short-couch encampment. She put the TV on Jeopardy, and sat down across the table from me. Where she proceeded to talk all through Jeopardy. That's okay. She's my mom. She can get away with things Farmer H would never dream of doing. However...I must draw the line.
As I was chomping on chicken, Mom pushed something across the table toward me. It hit the edge of my paper plate, in fact. It was TWO MOUSETRAPS!
"Um...I try not to be any trouble, but is it too much to ask that I finish my chicken without mousetraps in my food?"
"Oh, they're clean! They're new. I can't figure out how to use them. Look. You're supposed to put the bait on there, then put this bar under it. And I can't see how to get that bar to stay."
"Do you have a mouse?"
"I think so."
"Let me finish eating, then I'll look at it. But remember, my glasses are out in the car."
"I'm not using these mousetraps. I have some better ones. But I need to know how to use them, in case I need them." I had visions of the scene in Ratatouille where the old lady shoots a shotgun at the chandelier, and her whole ceiling caves in, dropping thousands of rats out of the attic.
"I thought you had those traps like a roach motel. The mice crawl in and get their feet stuck, and you throw the whole box away."
"No. These are new. You just put peanut butter on a little section, flip the bar over, and it snaps on them as soon as they touch the peanut butter."
"Well, you don't put this bar under the bait. It goes right there on top, in the little upright section."
"Oh, I can't get it to stay. I'll just use my other ones."
"So somebody finally built a better mousetrap, huh?"
"They are SO easy. I'm going to set them out tonight. I'll get you some next time I go to the store."
"That's okay, Mom. We probably won't get a mouse until fall. They come in under the basement door when it gets cold."
"And those lazy cats won't do anything to stop them!" The Pony has big ears.
FYI, Mom caught two mice Thursday night. She set up her traps along the cabinets under her stovetop. She knew she had a mouse because when she went to get her confectioners sugar, something had chewed on the bag. She is setting out her traps again tonight. We'll see what develops.
Thank the Gummi Mary nothing tried to chew into the slaw.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Friday, May 16, 2014
People Can Be So Rude
Last night, I had the pleasure of presenting Science Fair awards and checks at the board meeting. Or as some folks in the audience might have called it, The Bored Meeting. Because they see it as a big deal, a definite honor to be honored there, but they're just not that into it.
The Pony and I swung by my mom's house to kill some time and avoid a drive all the way back to the Mansion between school and the meeting. She fed us some flatbread pizza and chicken strips, provided us each with our own couch, put Jeopardy on the TV, and hung breathlessly onto our every utterance. She's a peach.
Farmer H met us at the venue. Or as most would call it, the Basementia gym. As The Pony and I climbed out of T-Hoe, Farmer H started jawing with an old man and old lady who were walking in ahead of us. He seemed to know them. I assumed they must be the grandparents or parents of somebody he went to school with. Finding ourselves locked out, we sent The Pony back to the end door to come through and let us in. We waited. And waited. I did not see him through the door glass slits.
"He can't get in. Where is he?"
"He can get in. I just saw the principal of Elementia go through that door. It's open."
"I don't think so. Where's The Pony?" Just then a disembodied woman's voice told us to come in. Nobody else seemed to hear. Was I having an auditory hallucination? I tried the door handle. IT OPENED! We went in, and so did that old couple. Farmer H followed them towards the gym. "Wait a minute! Where's The Pony? We have to find him. We have to at least wait and let him in. He's being honored." The Pony appeared outside the doors. He pulled. He made a face. He started flapping his hands. Shrugging. I hollered to Farmer H to go back and let him in.
"Why didn't you come in the end door? Principal Elementia did."
"Uh. Yeah. Principal Elementia has a number code for the keypad."
We proceeded to the relatively empty gym. Principals Newmentia and Elementia were readying awards on a table by the podium. I went in search of a chair to sit against the gym wall. No way was I climbing those creaky wooden steps up to the 1930s era bleachers and relatively newer seats. I would have to stay handy to do my presenting. Handy, but not standy. Farmer H accompanied me to carry an old wooden straightbacked chair that I found in an unsecured storeroom.
By this time, people were arriving, and finding that they were locked out. Some started banging on the metal gym lobby doors. Too bad, so sad. I was not going to leave my perch every 30 seconds to go let people in. Not my job. The overseer of that facility should have planned ahead. Or at least been there by now. The Principals started calling around to see who could disarm the security system. Nobody was in the office to continually buzz people in. Seriously. They were invited. To greet them with a locked door was not very polite. Finally, someone got the bright idea to prop those doors open with their built-in metal door-hook thingies. As the first group surged past me and up the steps, a lady frowned at me and said, "We were locked out!" Like I was the one responsible. Like I should have taken it upon myself to run around and sort out the problems created by those in charge. I looked at her. "I KNOW! You should have seen what I had to go through to get in!"
So the people surged in and filled all the chairs and some of the bleachers. The program got underway. My fellow presenters showed up. Arch Nemesis also went to find a chair. The other hardy souls stood with a foot bent back against the smooth concrete block wall. Certain presenters were allowed to go first, due to a concert within the hour over at Nementia.
When my turn arrived, I congratulated my 20 participants this year, 19 of whom placed 1st, 2nd, 3rd, or HM. I called them down. Handed out their checks and certificates. They went to get their pictures taken. I went back to my chair.
THERE WAS A WOMAN SITTING ON IT!
I don't know who she was. Not an employee of the district. Surely she could see that she had invaded the bullpen of employed presenters. That other audience members were sitting in the audience section. But there she sat. ON MY CHAIR!
My colleagues turned to look at me, their eyes as round as the eyes of Japanese anime characters. As round as the eyes of Precious Moments figurine children. As round as the bodies of honeypot ants before their brethren suck them dry. Eyes that said silently: "We tried to stop her! We did! Please don't hold us responsible. We don't know how to handle this situation. You were gone. She was here. Now we can't get rid of her." Arch Nemesis even offered me HER chair, but I declined. I held up the wall.
When Arch Nemesis went over to present her awards, I casually slipped into her chair. That usurper in MY wooden chair looked at me like, "What do you think you're doing?" It was all I could do to give her the cold shoulder. When Arch came back, I offered her own seat to her. She declined. But when the intruder jumped up to leave a few awards later, Arch filled my wooden chair before it was cool.
Principal Elementia wrapped up the evening by recognizing adult mentors. I felt bad for him. And for them. Because just as he began describing the program, and how it benefits the students, almost the entire remaining audience arose to leave. As in clomp across the creaky wood like buffalo on a stampede. Those rats scampered off the sinking ship like...um...rats off a sinking ship!
People can be so rude.
Oh, and those old people Farmer H was talking to? He went to school with them. The lady is even younger than Farmer H.
The Pony and I swung by my mom's house to kill some time and avoid a drive all the way back to the Mansion between school and the meeting. She fed us some flatbread pizza and chicken strips, provided us each with our own couch, put Jeopardy on the TV, and hung breathlessly onto our every utterance. She's a peach.
Farmer H met us at the venue. Or as most would call it, the Basementia gym. As The Pony and I climbed out of T-Hoe, Farmer H started jawing with an old man and old lady who were walking in ahead of us. He seemed to know them. I assumed they must be the grandparents or parents of somebody he went to school with. Finding ourselves locked out, we sent The Pony back to the end door to come through and let us in. We waited. And waited. I did not see him through the door glass slits.
"He can't get in. Where is he?"
"He can get in. I just saw the principal of Elementia go through that door. It's open."
"I don't think so. Where's The Pony?" Just then a disembodied woman's voice told us to come in. Nobody else seemed to hear. Was I having an auditory hallucination? I tried the door handle. IT OPENED! We went in, and so did that old couple. Farmer H followed them towards the gym. "Wait a minute! Where's The Pony? We have to find him. We have to at least wait and let him in. He's being honored." The Pony appeared outside the doors. He pulled. He made a face. He started flapping his hands. Shrugging. I hollered to Farmer H to go back and let him in.
"Why didn't you come in the end door? Principal Elementia did."
"Uh. Yeah. Principal Elementia has a number code for the keypad."
We proceeded to the relatively empty gym. Principals Newmentia and Elementia were readying awards on a table by the podium. I went in search of a chair to sit against the gym wall. No way was I climbing those creaky wooden steps up to the 1930s era bleachers and relatively newer seats. I would have to stay handy to do my presenting. Handy, but not standy. Farmer H accompanied me to carry an old wooden straightbacked chair that I found in an unsecured storeroom.
By this time, people were arriving, and finding that they were locked out. Some started banging on the metal gym lobby doors. Too bad, so sad. I was not going to leave my perch every 30 seconds to go let people in. Not my job. The overseer of that facility should have planned ahead. Or at least been there by now. The Principals started calling around to see who could disarm the security system. Nobody was in the office to continually buzz people in. Seriously. They were invited. To greet them with a locked door was not very polite. Finally, someone got the bright idea to prop those doors open with their built-in metal door-hook thingies. As the first group surged past me and up the steps, a lady frowned at me and said, "We were locked out!" Like I was the one responsible. Like I should have taken it upon myself to run around and sort out the problems created by those in charge. I looked at her. "I KNOW! You should have seen what I had to go through to get in!"
So the people surged in and filled all the chairs and some of the bleachers. The program got underway. My fellow presenters showed up. Arch Nemesis also went to find a chair. The other hardy souls stood with a foot bent back against the smooth concrete block wall. Certain presenters were allowed to go first, due to a concert within the hour over at Nementia.
When my turn arrived, I congratulated my 20 participants this year, 19 of whom placed 1st, 2nd, 3rd, or HM. I called them down. Handed out their checks and certificates. They went to get their pictures taken. I went back to my chair.
THERE WAS A WOMAN SITTING ON IT!
I don't know who she was. Not an employee of the district. Surely she could see that she had invaded the bullpen of employed presenters. That other audience members were sitting in the audience section. But there she sat. ON MY CHAIR!
My colleagues turned to look at me, their eyes as round as the eyes of Japanese anime characters. As round as the eyes of Precious Moments figurine children. As round as the bodies of honeypot ants before their brethren suck them dry. Eyes that said silently: "We tried to stop her! We did! Please don't hold us responsible. We don't know how to handle this situation. You were gone. She was here. Now we can't get rid of her." Arch Nemesis even offered me HER chair, but I declined. I held up the wall.
When Arch Nemesis went over to present her awards, I casually slipped into her chair. That usurper in MY wooden chair looked at me like, "What do you think you're doing?" It was all I could do to give her the cold shoulder. When Arch came back, I offered her own seat to her. She declined. But when the intruder jumped up to leave a few awards later, Arch filled my wooden chair before it was cool.
Principal Elementia wrapped up the evening by recognizing adult mentors. I felt bad for him. And for them. Because just as he began describing the program, and how it benefits the students, almost the entire remaining audience arose to leave. As in clomp across the creaky wood like buffalo on a stampede. Those rats scampered off the sinking ship like...um...rats off a sinking ship!
People can be so rude.
Oh, and those old people Farmer H was talking to? He went to school with them. The lady is even younger than Farmer H.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Let’s Hope The Patient Does Not Die, Even Though The Operation Is A Success
The #1 son is
moving home for the summer on Friday evening. On Sunday he will be moving out.
He finished finals today, and starts a summer job on Monday. He will be working
at a computer engineering firm, doing whatever computer engineers do. For $20
per hour. Not too shabby for a teenager.
Of course, while
his work computer is being engineered, my home computer will be slowly wasting
away Hillmombaville. Decomposing. I, myself, will be stewing in my own juices.
Which are surprisingly similar to the ingredients of Diet Coke. I cannot live
without my internet. I am an addict. Don’t try to intervene me. I’m not ready.
I need that apron string, that umbilical cord that connects me to cyberspace.
Don’t make me walk
into a hotel conference room and see everyone teary-eyed, holding tissues and
letters to read to me. I will not go to treatment today. Undortunately, I might
be forced to go cold turkey.
My Shiba is quite
ill. Something is wrong with her XPCOM. Some kind of .dll file is corrupt.
Aren’t they all? Dr. #1 says he cannot see the patient by a remote viewing. He
suggests taking a dose of Internet Explorer and calling him tomorrow. When he
will make a house call to check Shiba for a case of Firefox.
Please keep my patient in
your thoughts.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
If Farmer H Designed A Mattress, It Would Be A Farmers Moody-Rest
Just when I was
certain Farmer H was trying to kill me…he goes and accuses me of trying to kill
HIM! Can you believe that audacity of that man? Like I would need to expend any
effort, what with him doing such a good job of it himself.
The whole
kerfuffle started when I climbed into bed. It’s a new adventure every night. I
feel like a National Geographic explorer. What will it be this time, craggy
terrain with mountain peaks? Barren steppe? A humid jungle of clinging vines?
Last night, it was
the jungle. My pillow stack was not too disrupted. I found the corner of
Grandma’s quilt and the corner of the flannel sheet, and matched them up, and
folded them back. It goes without saying (but Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a
loquacious sort), that the edge lay across part of Farmer H. It’s only a
queen-size mattress, you know. I inserted myself into the marital bed, reached
for that corner, and pulled the sheet/quilt combo over myself.
Farmer H began
caterwauling like the most proficient caterwauler that ever caterwauled. “Yoowwww!”
“What’s wrong with
you?”
“You about
ripped my arm off!”
Hyperbole, thy
name is Farmer H. Was there a heavy stump wrapped in Grandma’s quilt that
thumped onto my chest? Was arterial blood spurting into the air, raining down
on me like a gusher in a Texas oil field? I think not. The room was dark,
certainly, but my other four senses were heightened. Like my BS detector.
To hear Farmer H
carry on, one would have thought I was ripping him limb from limb. And whacking
him severely about the head, shoulders, and genital region with the purloined
appendages. Which I most certainly did not do. My energy was needed elsewhere.
Perhaps I’ve
mentioned off-handedly (heh, heh, a little dismemberment funny) how Farmer H
prefers the weighty quilt of my grandma to a gossamer comforter from the
insurance salvage store where I once worked. And he prefers the toasty flannel
sheets to the smooth cool cotton sheets that are so soothing to a slumberer in
a 74-degree bedroom. Do you have any clue how flannel sheets and 100% cotton
jammies interact with each other? LIKE VELCRO!
I could not
situate myself upon the sheets. Part of the problem was that roughly two feet
of sheet stretched above my head, while my feet cooled their heels as naked as
the day I came into the world. I could not maneuver the sheet down. I thrashed
like a Tasmanian devil caught under a throw net. Twisted myself up in those
sheets like a Scotch Removable Clear Mounting Square wrapped in a strip of
flypaper. Entangled myself tighter than a cocklebur in a minipony’s flowing
mane. I was tireder when I woke up than when I went to bed.
Once I had
unintentionally swaddled myself into submission, I tried to count sheep leaping
over a pastoral pasture fence. My imaginary sheep snagged their wool on an
imaginary thorn tree, and hung suspended like so many plump white curly fruit
sagging toward the ground. Not conducive to counting.
Farmer H is not conducive to ZZZZs.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
The Whiny Little Princess Of Denial
Farmer H is royalty, you know. At first, he fancied himself king. King of Denial, I say.
The Pony let it slip that he and Farmer H stopped for ice cream Sunday after mowing my mom's yard. Hmpf! Don't think I'm bitter because it was Mother's Day, and I had no ice cream. It's not like they were doing the Eddie Murphy dance and singing, "You ain't got no ice cream!" No. They were quite secretive. I only found out because today I asked The Pony if he wanted to stop by Dairy Queen on the way home and try the Blizzard of the Month, Strawberry Shortcake. The Pony said, "Sure. Dad and I stopped for ice cream on the way home after mowing Grandma's yard."
"Oh. Where did you stop?" I knew it wasn't Dairy Queen, because that is not on their way, and Dairy Queen does not have sugar-free ice cream. Farmer H must avoid sugar and excess carbs.
"The custard place. Where we went last week." While Farmer H was away on business for three days, The Pony and I did indeed stop for custard. Just to see if the shop was open for the summer, you know. And we were rewarding ourselves after The Pony had an optometrist visit. The custard place has sugar-free custard, so Farmer H can partake.
"Oh. Did you have a chocolate sundae again?"
"No. I had a cone."
"Did Dad have the sugar-free?"
"No. I don't know. He had what I had."
"WHAT? He can't have that! What did you have?"
"The twist. Chocolate and vanilla."
"And Dad didn't ask for sugar-free?"
"No. I didn't hear him ask for that. And it came out the same machine as mine."
So I gathered up my pitchfork and flaming torch, and set out on a witch-hunt. Farmer H blundered into my kitchen trap forthwith. "I hear you had ice cream the other day."
"Yeesss. We stopped on the way back from your mom's."
"What did you have?"
"The twist cone. What I always have. I can have that. It's custard." He looked at me like I was as simpleminded as Pangle, the Ethan Supplee character in Cold Mountain.
"You can't have that!"
"Oh. It's frozen yogurt I can have."
"No...it's anything sugar-free you can have. How hard is that to remember. You can't have sugar. It has nothing to do with custard or yogurt. It's the SUGAR!"
"I get it all the time. The twist cone."
"You have to ask for the sugar-free! They always have the twist in sugar-free. And sometimes something special for the week. But they're not going to give everybody who asks for twist a sugar-free version! You have to ask for it."
"Oh."
I don't know how that man has managed to live this long. Thank the Gummi Mary he has that breather to keep him oxygenated while I'm sleeping and unable to tell him to breathe in, breathe out.
The Pony let it slip that he and Farmer H stopped for ice cream Sunday after mowing my mom's yard. Hmpf! Don't think I'm bitter because it was Mother's Day, and I had no ice cream. It's not like they were doing the Eddie Murphy dance and singing, "You ain't got no ice cream!" No. They were quite secretive. I only found out because today I asked The Pony if he wanted to stop by Dairy Queen on the way home and try the Blizzard of the Month, Strawberry Shortcake. The Pony said, "Sure. Dad and I stopped for ice cream on the way home after mowing Grandma's yard."
"Oh. Where did you stop?" I knew it wasn't Dairy Queen, because that is not on their way, and Dairy Queen does not have sugar-free ice cream. Farmer H must avoid sugar and excess carbs.
"The custard place. Where we went last week." While Farmer H was away on business for three days, The Pony and I did indeed stop for custard. Just to see if the shop was open for the summer, you know. And we were rewarding ourselves after The Pony had an optometrist visit. The custard place has sugar-free custard, so Farmer H can partake.
"Oh. Did you have a chocolate sundae again?"
"No. I had a cone."
"Did Dad have the sugar-free?"
"No. I don't know. He had what I had."
"WHAT? He can't have that! What did you have?"
"The twist. Chocolate and vanilla."
"And Dad didn't ask for sugar-free?"
"No. I didn't hear him ask for that. And it came out the same machine as mine."
So I gathered up my pitchfork and flaming torch, and set out on a witch-hunt. Farmer H blundered into my kitchen trap forthwith. "I hear you had ice cream the other day."
"Yeesss. We stopped on the way back from your mom's."
"What did you have?"
"The twist cone. What I always have. I can have that. It's custard." He looked at me like I was as simpleminded as Pangle, the Ethan Supplee character in Cold Mountain.
"You can't have that!"
"Oh. It's frozen yogurt I can have."
"No...it's anything sugar-free you can have. How hard is that to remember. You can't have sugar. It has nothing to do with custard or yogurt. It's the SUGAR!"
"I get it all the time. The twist cone."
"You have to ask for the sugar-free! They always have the twist in sugar-free. And sometimes something special for the week. But they're not going to give everybody who asks for twist a sugar-free version! You have to ask for it."
"Oh."
I don't know how that man has managed to live this long. Thank the Gummi Mary he has that breather to keep him oxygenated while I'm sleeping and unable to tell him to breathe in, breathe out.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Setting The Trap
I'm still pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me.
Since that T-Hoe passenger-seat plot did not work to blind-spot me and cause a crash with oncoming traffic, Farmer H has moved on to more subtle tactics. Like a slow, lingering death from blood poisoning, perhaps.
It's no secret that I keep odd hours. It is not unusual for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to toss in a load of laundry at 2:00 a.m., and transfer it from washer to dryer at 5:00. Nor is it a secret that while Farmer H tromps round the Mansion in his crusty clodhoppers, Mrs. HM pitter-patters about in her stylish red Crocs until bedtime, when she prances barefoot from room to room. Including the cold gray tile of the laundry room.
In the wee hours this morning, as I dumped in a load of assorted colored togs, I noticed a pebble on the laundry room floor in front of the washer. Darn that Farmer H. More droppings from his Jed Clampett boots. I made a mental note to sidestep that crippler when I returned for the dryer.
Guess what? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not good at reading mental notes at 5:00 a.m. I padded my bare feet right up to the washer, and screamed in pain. That rock was under my heel. Check that. That rock was IN my heel.
THAT ROCK WAS A NAIL!
Uh huh. It's true. Farmer H set a trap to impale my sole. Possibly give me a case of lock-jaw. Except the joke's on him, because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has had a tetanus shot within the last ten years. Two in the last 13 years. First there was that biting chipmunk incident, then that case of the fishing-pole-holding nails in the garage ripping the flesh from my forearm like that town ripped the bones from the back of Bruce Springsteen. Darn that Farmer H. Darn him all to heck! And I AM quoting Alex the lion in Madagascar.
That might actually be a screw with the end broken off. AND STILL IN MY FOOT. Maybe.
Yeah. It's becoming clearer. Farmer H in the laundry room with a short nail.
Since that T-Hoe passenger-seat plot did not work to blind-spot me and cause a crash with oncoming traffic, Farmer H has moved on to more subtle tactics. Like a slow, lingering death from blood poisoning, perhaps.
It's no secret that I keep odd hours. It is not unusual for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to toss in a load of laundry at 2:00 a.m., and transfer it from washer to dryer at 5:00. Nor is it a secret that while Farmer H tromps round the Mansion in his crusty clodhoppers, Mrs. HM pitter-patters about in her stylish red Crocs until bedtime, when she prances barefoot from room to room. Including the cold gray tile of the laundry room.
In the wee hours this morning, as I dumped in a load of assorted colored togs, I noticed a pebble on the laundry room floor in front of the washer. Darn that Farmer H. More droppings from his Jed Clampett boots. I made a mental note to sidestep that crippler when I returned for the dryer.
Guess what? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not good at reading mental notes at 5:00 a.m. I padded my bare feet right up to the washer, and screamed in pain. That rock was under my heel. Check that. That rock was IN my heel.
THAT ROCK WAS A NAIL!
Uh huh. It's true. Farmer H set a trap to impale my sole. Possibly give me a case of lock-jaw. Except the joke's on him, because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has had a tetanus shot within the last ten years. Two in the last 13 years. First there was that biting chipmunk incident, then that case of the fishing-pole-holding nails in the garage ripping the flesh from my forearm like that town ripped the bones from the back of Bruce Springsteen. Darn that Farmer H. Darn him all to heck! And I AM quoting Alex the lion in Madagascar.
That might actually be a screw with the end broken off. AND STILL IN MY FOOT. Maybe.
Yeah. It's becoming clearer. Farmer H in the laundry room with a short nail.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
A MiniPony, By Any Other Name
The minipony has a name! Yes, like the pine trees linin' the windin' road, like the singin' bird and the croakin' toad, like Jim Croce himself...our tiny equine has a name.
It's Barry.
That's right. Barry. I was hoping for something more regal. More fitting for such a fine hunk of horseflesh. More...horsey. It's not even Berry. It's Barry.
According to Farmer H, Barry's previous owner named him after a man who used to raise horses, but had recently died. Yep. He wasn't even named because he LOOKED like a guy named Barry.
Farmer H continues to call him Red. The Pony, now knowing his name, does not use it. "I call him Pony. Or Boy." I guess there's a certain symmetry to that. Says Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, stealing a line from The Big Chill, to once again show off her knowledge of obscure movie quotes.
We have no new pictures of Barry, so I'll leave you an old picture to see if you think he fits his newly-discovered name.
Poor little guy. It's like we are leaving him a blank baby book. I'll try to get some more pictures. Now that The Pony brushes his minipony a couple times a week, he's not looking so disheveled. Not so rock-starrish.
If Farmer H was up-to-date on his Ozark Mountain Daredevils lyrics, he might say:
"It's your good luck to know an old horse-trader like me."
It's Barry.
That's right. Barry. I was hoping for something more regal. More fitting for such a fine hunk of horseflesh. More...horsey. It's not even Berry. It's Barry.
According to Farmer H, Barry's previous owner named him after a man who used to raise horses, but had recently died. Yep. He wasn't even named because he LOOKED like a guy named Barry.
Farmer H continues to call him Red. The Pony, now knowing his name, does not use it. "I call him Pony. Or Boy." I guess there's a certain symmetry to that. Says Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, stealing a line from The Big Chill, to once again show off her knowledge of obscure movie quotes.
We have no new pictures of Barry, so I'll leave you an old picture to see if you think he fits his newly-discovered name.
If Farmer H was up-to-date on his Ozark Mountain Daredevils lyrics, he might say:
"It's your good luck to know an old horse-trader like me."
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