Three Out Of Four Ain't Bad

I let my classes do partner work today on a long and winding study guide. That's the good news. The bad news was that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom selected the partners by drawing randomly from a set of index cards with their names.

This was their first time for such collaborative learning in my classroom. As always, I cautioned them about their responses to the partner reveal.

"We will not show emotion upon hearing the name of our partner. You are unlikely to get the partner of your dreams. In fact, some of you may get the partner of your nightmares. But remember that you will only be working with them for about 30 minutes. Surely you can manage to work with a classmate for that amount of time without issue. If not, then we will not be doing any more partner work. So let's get this straight. No shouts of joy, no groans of despair. We are civilized human beings. We will not be unkind to our classmates. Is that understood?"

Three of the four classes did very well. There were several matches made in not-heaven. Like the girl paired with the boy she tried to show how to whistle through her fists yesterday, causing me to chastise HIM because I heard the whistle and saw his hands. Even though he could not make the whistle. Funny how quickly he forgave her.

The class of offenders was the class with the most exemplary behavior each day. As some people call them, the smart kids. Though I prefer to think of them as the kids who care about earning good grades. Because they all put forth effort, there was really no bad partner to be had. When names were pulled, some high-fived. Some fist-pumped. Some groaned because that's the person they sit by every day anyway. I told them they were not doing well in the non-showing of emotion department. They apologized.

"You people will not be winning any Academy Awards for your subtle acting techniques. You also will not be winning at poker, because you cannot conceal your emotions."

I don't think they cared. This is the kind of group who would form an MIT card-counting team to beat the casinos at blackjack. Not to get rich. To prove that they could.

A Teachery Kind Of Joke

Okay, I simply have to share this little biology worksheet faux pas with you.

My students were supposed to list three abiotic factors in the environment. For you not-very-sciency folks, abiotic means nonliving. As opposed to biotic factors, which are alive. The textbook gave several abiotic factors, such as sunlight, water, wind, soil, temperature.

A student listed three abiotic factors as: sunlight, water, wine.

That cracked me up. Technically correct. But not quite right.

Ouchy Ouch Ouch

There's something in the air.

Well, it WAS in the air. Now it has traveled up my nose and imbedded itself in my sinus cavities. They are cavities no more. They are clogged like last week's kitchen sink drain. My head has been throbbing above the eye sockets since last night. My best friends acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and aspirin have let me down.

It does not behoove you to annoy Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Like that loud-shouter on my right at the teacher lunch table. And the son who slammed the front door when he arrived home from roboting. And the three dogs who yip and yap from 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m.

I feel like I have an ice cream headache. But without the delicious mint chip or french silk treat. Something's gotta give. Because this head pain gives me a pain between my shoulder blades.

And makes me a pain in everyone else's nether regions.

The Life Of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Exhausting

I know why I am so tired. I am the keeper of every item in the universe. Or at least in the Hillbilly Mansion.

The #1 son just popped into my office to ask if we have a digital thermometer. Of course I grew fearful for his well-being. "Do you have a fever?"

"No. I want to know if our hot water is below 108 degrees."

"I don't think you can use a thermometer for that. They are made for PEOPLE. So I don't think they go much above 106 degrees. You'll blow it out."

"But I only want to go to 108."

"It doesn't work that way. If the water is hotter, the thermometer won't stop at 108. It will break."

"Just tell me if we have one."

"Why don't you ask your dad what he set the hot water for. I'm sure there's a setting. He'll know how hot it gets."

"That defeats my purpose. I need to find out how hot the water is, so I know if I can develop my own film. If it gets hotter than 108, I'll turn on more cold until it's lower."

"But the thermometer can't handle 108."

"Just tell me where it is."

"Like I know! It's on the TV table, or it's in the right or left bathroom drawer."

 What about the one I used in my science fair project on freezing soda? (Four years ago)

"I don't know. What about it?"

"That one would work. It was for cooking. Where is it?"

"I guess it's with all that stuff from that science fair project."

SIGH. "Why are you like this?"

"I am tired of being the keeper of everything. You guys would just lay around burning up with fever, never even looking for a thermometer because that's too much work. To find it where it belongs, and put it back where it belongs. I am NOT the keeper of everything in the world!"

I'm not!

A Top Secret Mission

I love my mother. Really. I do. She is so thoughtful. Always helping me with my children. Bolstering my spirits. Believing in me. Laughing at my jokes. Giving me little gifts like individual packs of peanuts. And apples.

Every morning at 6:00, I call Mom to chat for a few minutes. If I don't call by 6:05, she calls me. We usually discuss our plans for the day, or the latest happenings on Big Brother, or what the boys have been up to lately. This morning, Mom asked me to deliver some of her not-world-famous Chex Mix to a fellow teacher who attends Mom's church. Her plan was to meet me on the school parking lot and transfer the goods. Oh, and she had a couple of apples she wanted to give me.

That was what Mom said. "Oh, my friend went to Eckert's, and brought me some apples. I'd like to bring you two of them if that's okay." Well. Who turns down two perfectly good apples picked by an old lady at Eckert's? Not this gal. So I told Mom she could bring me the apples.

The Pony and I pulled onto the blacktop parking lot and backed into our isolated space two from the end. Mom was already waiting. She hustled over with the Chex Mix in a paper sack. That stuff is like crack for teachers. It wouldn't do for somebody to find out that one guy was getting some, and nobody else was being Chexed. The plan was for The Pony to drop it off to that teacher on his way to 1st hour. Oh, and Mom was carrying the apples. SIX APPLES. Sealed in a large ZipLoc bag.

Oh, the dilemma. I could not leave them in T-Hoe through the day. The sun beating in on the black leather seats was sure to turn that vehicle into an apple tomb. They would be heads for dolls by the time I came out, thanks to the ol' greenhouse effect. I have not forgotten the succulent garden tomatoes that Mom sent home after church with the #1 son, who left them sealed hermetically in their ZipLoc shroud inside his little red truck all afternoon at 107 degrees. I'm going to make a little recipe card to set on the counter of my proposed handbasket factory. A recipe explaining How to Parboil Tomatoes in a Ford Ranger.

So...I took the see-through bag of six apples and headed into the building. I felt like a decoy to take the heat off The Pony and his secret stash of Chex Mix.

A Public Service Announcement From The Emperor Of Hillmomba

Tap, tap, tap. Is this thing on?

Could somebody please give me a hand? Not as in applause. That comes later. Mixed with catcalls and boos, and hopefully no tar or feathers. My own petard is not sturdy enough to bear my ever-increasing weight, so I hope no hoisting will be attempted, either. Where was I...oh, needing a hand in climbing down from my high horse onto a soapbox. Thank you so much, gentleman in camouflage with a big dip of smokeless tobacco in your lip. This kind of pertains to you.

With deer season right around the corner, I feel it necessary make my annual address to the nation of Hillmomba. As every year, the subject of my manifesto is: Hunters are People, Too. I know that I am entering dangerous territory. I might as well bring up religion, politics, or spanking one's children at the teacher lunch table. Okay. Awkward. That's kind of like shooting an elephant in my pajamas. But I think we all understand that the spanking would be in the home, and the discussion would be at the teacher lunch table. And we're not talking about shooting elephants, but about shooting deer.

Citizens of Hillmomba, I do not begrudge any individual his right to believe as he chooses. It takes all kinds to move this nation forward. Variety is the spice of life. If you like to put out a corn plot and feed cute little fawns, may Sweet Gummi Mary be with you. Stand aside. I've got no interest in you today. My goal is to educate, not castigate.

Hillmomban PETAns, those of you who foam at the mouth any time you perceive the treatment of animals to veer from the path you have designated...I am talking to you. You may continue your crusade. Take in as many animals as you like, as long as they are treated humanely. Campaign to stop cruelty in animal research. In the food industry. In product testing. But please refrain from belittling the hunters of Hillmomba. They are the linchpin of the last bastion of political incorrectness, and they shoulder a double whammy. Redneck hillbillies and fat people are all you have left to publicly ridicule and discriminate against. But I'll let that topic slide for another day.

Hillmomban PETAns, you may espouse your opinions until the cows come home. Shout them from the rooftops. Dance naked waving signs with catchy slogans under the light of the full moon. But please refrain from lumping all hunters into one category and calling them obscene names. It is not becoming.

Hunting is a sport. Joe Hunter is not pulling the wings off of flies. He is not shooting fish in a barrel, mowing down bison with a Sharps Rifle from the window of a moving train, or making a fortune selling barrels of salted Passenger Pigeons to the citizens of New York. He is not harming the earth with his carbon footprint to fly to Africa and shoot wildlife photos, or hunt big game for a head on his wall. Joe Hunter is harvesting meat for his family while protecting deer herds from overpopulation.

I ask you, Hillmomban PETAns, have you ever heard of the deer problem in St. Louis County? In Creve Coeur, or Town and Country? Check it out. Google is your friend. That's what happens when man moves in and eliminates the natural predators of deer. Deer do not practice birth control. We cannot sit on our hands and wait for them to die of old age while more are being born every minute. Every habitat has a carrying capacity. Even in the country. Too many deer mean not enough food. Why, Hillmomban PETAns, do you wish for deer to die a slow, lingering death from starvation? You should be thanking Joe Hunter for his humane solution to an ongoing problem.

Joe Hunter does not command you to join the hunt, Hillmomban PETAns. He realizes that his sport is not for everybody. In turn, you should not disparage Joe Hunter for engaging in his favorite pastime. Let's remember that we are Hillmombans first, and PETAns and hunters second. Civility should be maintained for the sake of our nation.

Thank you. That now concludes the yearly address on hunters' rights.

Watch for my next appearance here at the town square, during which I will expound on another annual topic: The Flap Over Flu Shots.

It Somewhat Smacks Of Charity

What a beautiful day in Hillmomba! Temperatures in the very low seventies. A glint of autumn in the slanted sunlight. The smell of freshly cut grass mingled with hickory smoke. But you know what the most sought-after activity was for the native Hillmombans?

HARVESTING FREE AIR FROM CASEY'S GENERAL STORE!

It's true! I dropped off The Pony for his bowling league, and proceeded to town for some gas. While I was there, I figured I would put some air in my slow-leak tire. It was down six pounds. Imagine my surprise when I saw, while gassing up T-Hoe, a LINE for the free air that flows like milk and honey from the brown box on the front wall of Casey's. A cool dude with no shirt, saggy jeans, and boxer briefs sucked from the teat of the convenience-store air hose. I thought I might have a chance to drive over when he pulled out. But NO! A red car came in beside him to wait. And that guy hosed it up as well. While I was in line waiting for a young couple in front of me to come back from the soda machine and pay the $29 and change for their two individual slices apiece of pizza, and energy drinks in small bottles, and Red Bulls, and who knows what else, I spied out the front window a truck that had backed in beside the magical air dispenser.

A GUY IN OVERALLS WAS FILLING A TANK WITH THE FREE AIR!!!

That's a new one on me. I know that Farmer H has an air compressor at the BARn. And that the #1 son says we have a tank that we fill with air from the compressor to put air in my T-HOE tires (except in times when they lose four pounds of air a week and really need it routinely). But I never in my wildest dreams or nightmares thought I would see a guy in overalls at Casey's filling a tank with air from the red car-hose.

Then again...it's free. People are gonna soak up whatever resources they can if they don't have to pay.