How do you know when the #1 son if feeling better?
You come home after a hard day at work and your retirement seminar and washing your mom's dishes by hand, a 14-and-a-half hour day, and find a towering stack of dirty dishes including, but not limited to: a skillet, a sauce pan, two large plastic bowls, a measuring cup, seven spoons, three sharp knives, two forks, two spatulas, a colander, two beaters from the mixer, and a tea-stained cup.
Somebody's appetite is back!
Oh, and he fixed my broken internet but won't tell me how, only baits me and switches to a screen that shows me how many bytes I have left until the end of the billing cycle. Which makes me suspicious that he broke it so he could hold me hostage until he fixed it.
THEN, when he declared that I came in and started washing those dishes, which had lolled around the kitchen counter since noon, without even asking if anybody wanted me to wash them, and did not even speak to him, I had to remind him that yes, I DID speak to him.
"THANKS A LOT!" Yes. Those were my very words upon entering through the kitchen door. I THANKED him. Thanked him for not leaving on a porch light, necessitating the illumination of the Christmas lights strung along the soffits, and for having the kitchen door locked so that I had to rummage for my keys in the pitch dark, as no Christmas lights adorn the back porch, and almost get frostbite while trying to find the hole in the lock. So there. I not only spoke to him, I THANKED him. In a not-very-nice way, but still, in print, it is a true statement that I thanked him.
And he was not even amused when I went all the way to the long couch and stood over him waggling the end of a hemp-looking belt like a cobra, singing "Dee dee dee, dee dee dee dee dee dee dee" like a snake charmer's flute, asking him to tell me how my internet had been fixed. And he was pretty jumpy when he sat up and turned his back to avoid me, and I tapped him on the shoulder with my index finger, and he flinched like a real cobra was after him.
Yes. I'm glad he's back from the precipice overlooking the chasm of the bunker sealed by death's door.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Stop Me If You've Heard This One
Oh, dear. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not meeting the needs of her pupils. It's not that she doesn't strive to supply them with their minimum daily requirement of attention and free stuff. She does. Really.
Today, for instance, today Mrs. Hillbilly Mom even left out her cache of Puffs With Lotion and...drumroll...GERM-X! For the very class that had their privileges revoked. Just to see how they've matured over the break. And today, there was NOT AN ISSUE with a single tissue!
However...
In the midst of seatwork, while Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was attempting to complete a practice run on the iTester, which has been souped up to provide more realistic trials for EOC testing, HM needing a scant three minutes to finish labeling her online line graph...one of her charges approached the desk. Not to ask a question pertaining to the lesson, mind you, like the seven others who came before him, when Mrs. HM gladly stopped her mission and gave her full attention to the inquirers. No. This one came holding his shirttail out with both hands.
"Do you have some scissors?"
"Yes. I'm a teacher. Is this a survey?" Mrs. Hillbilly Mom continued labeling her Y-axis with bubbles per minute.
"Can I use them?"
"For what?" Only four left to go.
"I need to cut this thread off my shirt."
"Sorry. I'm busy. I can't stop for that."
"Huh." Threadly huffed away, all frowny-faced.
Sorry. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not the facility's designated tailor. It's not as if she was putting on makeup, or gambling online, or seeking a Russian groom. She was taking the practice test in order to find out how it will be graded, so she knows how to work practice sessions into her lesson plans. The rest of the class was fending for themselves. Or getting help from Mrs. HM as needed. For the assignment. Not for personal grooming.
Okay. Only one three-part question left on the performance event. List three specific instructions so anyone could perform the same experiment the same way. Piece of cake. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can do these in her sleep. But not in a class of 20 freshmen, one of which has just appeared at her desk in need of assistance.
"Do you have any lotion?"
"What? Lotion? I'm not giving you lotion."
"But. My hands. They're so dry." Waved under Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's nose, they did appear very dry. As if a working man had taken an emery board to his callouses.
"I don't even HAVE lotion."
"Well, what can I do? Does the office have lotion?"
"I doubt it."
"What about the nurse? Can I go ask the nurse for some lotion?"
"She might have some, but she won't be here until after last lunch shift. You'll have to wait."
"But my hands are so DRY!"
"Sorry. Go by the office on your way to your next class. Ask them."
What's next for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? Fitting each pupil for a new suit? Grafting skin? I am not so sure these skills fall under the auspices of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's contract, the clause that says "...and other duties as needed."
Today, for instance, today Mrs. Hillbilly Mom even left out her cache of Puffs With Lotion and...drumroll...GERM-X! For the very class that had their privileges revoked. Just to see how they've matured over the break. And today, there was NOT AN ISSUE with a single tissue!
However...
In the midst of seatwork, while Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was attempting to complete a practice run on the iTester, which has been souped up to provide more realistic trials for EOC testing, HM needing a scant three minutes to finish labeling her online line graph...one of her charges approached the desk. Not to ask a question pertaining to the lesson, mind you, like the seven others who came before him, when Mrs. HM gladly stopped her mission and gave her full attention to the inquirers. No. This one came holding his shirttail out with both hands.
"Do you have some scissors?"
"Yes. I'm a teacher. Is this a survey?" Mrs. Hillbilly Mom continued labeling her Y-axis with bubbles per minute.
"Can I use them?"
"For what?" Only four left to go.
"I need to cut this thread off my shirt."
"Sorry. I'm busy. I can't stop for that."
"Huh." Threadly huffed away, all frowny-faced.
Sorry. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not the facility's designated tailor. It's not as if she was putting on makeup, or gambling online, or seeking a Russian groom. She was taking the practice test in order to find out how it will be graded, so she knows how to work practice sessions into her lesson plans. The rest of the class was fending for themselves. Or getting help from Mrs. HM as needed. For the assignment. Not for personal grooming.
Okay. Only one three-part question left on the performance event. List three specific instructions so anyone could perform the same experiment the same way. Piece of cake. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can do these in her sleep. But not in a class of 20 freshmen, one of which has just appeared at her desk in need of assistance.
"Do you have any lotion?"
"What? Lotion? I'm not giving you lotion."
"But. My hands. They're so dry." Waved under Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's nose, they did appear very dry. As if a working man had taken an emery board to his callouses.
"I don't even HAVE lotion."
"Well, what can I do? Does the office have lotion?"
"I doubt it."
"What about the nurse? Can I go ask the nurse for some lotion?"
"She might have some, but she won't be here until after last lunch shift. You'll have to wait."
"But my hands are so DRY!"
"Sorry. Go by the office on your way to your next class. Ask them."
What's next for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? Fitting each pupil for a new suit? Grafting skin? I am not so sure these skills fall under the auspices of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's contract, the clause that says "...and other duties as needed."
Monday, January 5, 2015
That's How Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Rolls
I returned to work today. A bit reluctantly. All in all, things turned out better than I anticipated.
I didn't think so at first. No sooner had I printed out my new semester rosters and taken attendance than two missing persons who had declared themselves MOVED three weeks before the end of the semester came waltzing in, textbooks still in hand, and joined my class load.
On the plus side, another rebounder had been removed from my class list, hopefully having himself declared persona non grata from a couple of previous courses, thus freeing up his schedule to grace the same section taught by Arch Nemesis. Fair is fair. Spread the joy. Share the wealth.
At lunch, upon notice of an impending faculty meeting after last bell, one lunchie announced that he had athletic business to attend to. Another lunchie stated that he had a practice to run. And a third lunchie declared that her presence was required at Basementia or the world would stop revolving, spinning slowly down to die. At that very moment, Mr. Principal was called away from the table by support staff for some pressing engagement. As he made his exit, I called after him: "I will be at that meeting, and I am LOOKING FORWARD TO IT!"
Yep. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a gold-star employee. When they made her, they broke the mold.
I didn't think so at first. No sooner had I printed out my new semester rosters and taken attendance than two missing persons who had declared themselves MOVED three weeks before the end of the semester came waltzing in, textbooks still in hand, and joined my class load.
On the plus side, another rebounder had been removed from my class list, hopefully having himself declared persona non grata from a couple of previous courses, thus freeing up his schedule to grace the same section taught by Arch Nemesis. Fair is fair. Spread the joy. Share the wealth.
At lunch, upon notice of an impending faculty meeting after last bell, one lunchie announced that he had athletic business to attend to. Another lunchie stated that he had a practice to run. And a third lunchie declared that her presence was required at Basementia or the world would stop revolving, spinning slowly down to die. At that very moment, Mr. Principal was called away from the table by support staff for some pressing engagement. As he made his exit, I called after him: "I will be at that meeting, and I am LOOKING FORWARD TO IT!"
Yep. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a gold-star employee. When they made her, they broke the mold.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
No Reprieve In Sight
Flurries, flurries everywhere, and not a flake to stick.
Whatever happened to winter? Last year's winter! The winter that started before winter arrived. I distinctly remember having an entire five-day consecutive week off due to snow BEFORE Christmas. That was like a...a...NINE-DAY WEEKEND! And then, just when we were steeling ourselves to return after the new year...POOF! A magical snow on Sunday evening that put us out another entire five-day consecutive week.
Alas. Two weeks into calendar winter, and nary a coating to slick the roads. It must be that dad-gum global warming. How many cows do you have to keep from farting to get a little precipitation accumulation around here? The cold is allegedly knocking on our door, yet it's too much of a good thing. Too cold to snow! Of course we will be left with the unpleasantness of the bone-chilling deep freeze on the day my mom goes to the dentist to have two teeth pulled, and I go to my retirement seminar.
You know when that accumulating snow will arrive? On the day I have to go back to a city doctor in February, or the day my mom has to go to her head doctor in the city. Yep. I'm sure of it. That's when those things always happen. The bitter along with the sweet.
I refuse to resign myself to the possibility that we will have NO further snow days, and that Newmentia will dismiss for the summer on May 12.
Not gonna happen.
Whatever happened to winter? Last year's winter! The winter that started before winter arrived. I distinctly remember having an entire five-day consecutive week off due to snow BEFORE Christmas. That was like a...a...NINE-DAY WEEKEND! And then, just when we were steeling ourselves to return after the new year...POOF! A magical snow on Sunday evening that put us out another entire five-day consecutive week.
Alas. Two weeks into calendar winter, and nary a coating to slick the roads. It must be that dad-gum global warming. How many cows do you have to keep from farting to get a little precipitation accumulation around here? The cold is allegedly knocking on our door, yet it's too much of a good thing. Too cold to snow! Of course we will be left with the unpleasantness of the bone-chilling deep freeze on the day my mom goes to the dentist to have two teeth pulled, and I go to my retirement seminar.
You know when that accumulating snow will arrive? On the day I have to go back to a city doctor in February, or the day my mom has to go to her head doctor in the city. Yep. I'm sure of it. That's when those things always happen. The bitter along with the sweet.
I refuse to resign myself to the possibility that we will have NO further snow days, and that Newmentia will dismiss for the summer on May 12.
Not gonna happen.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
The Great Freeze-Out Conspiracy
WooHoo! Nothing died today at the Mansion!
I do, however, have a cautionary tale. The new water heater was installed last night. This morning, no sooner had I arisen at 8:05 than the #1 son hopped out of bed and into the shower at 8:15. Until 8:45. From there, he plopped on the long couch in saggy jeans and no shirt or socks. He did muster strength to eat some of The Pony's mini cinnamon rolls at 9:00. And use up several Solo cups of ice from Frig II. And by "use up" I mean fill a cup FULL of ice, put in a little water, slurp for a while, rattle the ice, then abandon it and let it melt.
I held off on the shower. I was sure the new water heater would pull its weight, but no need to tempt fate. #1, having exhausted himself bathing and eating and slurping, went back to bed. Somewhere around 11:15 he arose again. Stated that he was going somewhere, but that now he had NAP hair, so he was going to wet it.
"I'm telling you this so you don't freak out when you hear the shower running. I'm just wetting my hair so it will lay down."
Fifteen minutes of full shower later, he emerged.
"So now you're taking TWO showers a day?"
"It's the only way I can get warm in this house!"
"Says the boy who laid around without a shirt or socks after his first shower."
"It's too cold in here! That's the only way I can warm up!"
"We all live here too, you know. Put some clothes on. It's not like we single out your room and set the temperature lower in there."
"I'm leaving."
"It's cold out there. And you're only carrying a hoodie."
"I know I will freeze in the beginning, but then the car will warm up, and I can't take off a hoodie while I'm driving."
Funny how cars used to come with adjustable heaters, and windows that opened a crack. Funny how kids used to wear shirts and socks in the winter. Funny how parents used to set the thermostat, and kids just dealt with it and didn't dream of voicing an opinion. Funny how one shower a day used to be the standard.
I do, however, have a cautionary tale. The new water heater was installed last night. This morning, no sooner had I arisen at 8:05 than the #1 son hopped out of bed and into the shower at 8:15. Until 8:45. From there, he plopped on the long couch in saggy jeans and no shirt or socks. He did muster strength to eat some of The Pony's mini cinnamon rolls at 9:00. And use up several Solo cups of ice from Frig II. And by "use up" I mean fill a cup FULL of ice, put in a little water, slurp for a while, rattle the ice, then abandon it and let it melt.
I held off on the shower. I was sure the new water heater would pull its weight, but no need to tempt fate. #1, having exhausted himself bathing and eating and slurping, went back to bed. Somewhere around 11:15 he arose again. Stated that he was going somewhere, but that now he had NAP hair, so he was going to wet it.
"I'm telling you this so you don't freak out when you hear the shower running. I'm just wetting my hair so it will lay down."
Fifteen minutes of full shower later, he emerged.
"So now you're taking TWO showers a day?"
"It's the only way I can get warm in this house!"
"Says the boy who laid around without a shirt or socks after his first shower."
"It's too cold in here! That's the only way I can warm up!"
"We all live here too, you know. Put some clothes on. It's not like we single out your room and set the temperature lower in there."
"I'm leaving."
"It's cold out there. And you're only carrying a hoodie."
"I know I will freeze in the beginning, but then the car will warm up, and I can't take off a hoodie while I'm driving."
Funny how cars used to come with adjustable heaters, and windows that opened a crack. Funny how kids used to wear shirts and socks in the winter. Funny how parents used to set the thermostat, and kids just dealt with it and didn't dream of voicing an opinion. Funny how one shower a day used to be the standard.
Friday, January 2, 2015
Hillbilly Mansion: Where Things Go To Die
Oh, dear. I don't want to start off 2015 with the Hillbilly Mansion getting the reputation of being the place where things come to die. But we have our second casualty. No cute picture today. It just happened about an hour ago.
This morning, The #1 son slept in past 10:00. He's been getting up around 8:30, same as me. We purely love sleeping in around here, with no rat race to rush off to. Problem is, #1 decides to hop in the shower right when I want to hop in the shower. It's not like we have to use the same one. But we have to use the same pipes.
The #1 son likes a hot shower. For about 40 minutes. Which, as you might imagine, throws a monkey wrench into Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's shower plans. Well water is quite chilly, and it takes a while for the water heater to heat the water. Sometimes, I hear #1 get in, and I run in to steal away some warm water for 10 minutes. That's as long as it takes me. So what if he has to shorten his boiling by a few minutes. I pay the bills here, not him.
So this morning, I made sure he was okay, what with his broken crown issues and all. Yes. He was awake. Oriented. But he still wanted to snooze. Far be it from me to roll that boy out of bed. I ran to the shower at 10:30. More hot water for me, haha! Only not.
The water was warm when I stepped in. I'm not one to let it run for ten minutes while I sit on the toilet, like both The Pony and #1 seem wont to do. The water seemed to get cooler. Or I was getting used to the temperature. I turned it hotter. Barely noticeable. Then it got cooler. By now, I was ready for a final rinse. I cranked that knob all the way to HOT so I could get out with a nice warm glow. But no. Barely warm. I turned it off. Listened to see if I could hear water in the pipes. Maybe #1 had pulled my trick, and jumped in his shower as soon as I left. Nope. Further investigation revealed #1 still asleep.
I sent Farmer H a text. "We need a new water heater. I took a shower without even #1 interrupting, and it was barely warm. I cannot go through winter without a hot shower. This water heater is 16 years old. Every two years, you drag it outside and dig the stuffings out of the bottom. I think we can afford a new water heater." Yeah. I AM a bit long-winded in my texts.
Farmer H sent back that he would fix the water heater. He came home and went right to work. "I got a new heating element. It always goes bad because of the hard water and lime buildup. I'll take it out and put in the new element. Take about an hour." He called for his Pony, who had to change out of his dress slacks first. They set to work.
One hour later..."I'm going down to Lowe's for a new water heater. I can't get that one back in."
Yes. Ding dong, the water heater's dead. Which old water heater? The original old water heater. Ding dong, the water heater's dead.
One of these days, Farmer H is going to take my advice, and do something the right way the first time. He had The Pony's truck with him at work. He could have picked up a water heater between work and home, and installed it in less than an hour. So now he's taken his little helper down to Lowe's. They've been gone 90 minutes. Still have to install it when they get back.
It's a good thing Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not dirty.
This morning, The #1 son slept in past 10:00. He's been getting up around 8:30, same as me. We purely love sleeping in around here, with no rat race to rush off to. Problem is, #1 decides to hop in the shower right when I want to hop in the shower. It's not like we have to use the same one. But we have to use the same pipes.
The #1 son likes a hot shower. For about 40 minutes. Which, as you might imagine, throws a monkey wrench into Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's shower plans. Well water is quite chilly, and it takes a while for the water heater to heat the water. Sometimes, I hear #1 get in, and I run in to steal away some warm water for 10 minutes. That's as long as it takes me. So what if he has to shorten his boiling by a few minutes. I pay the bills here, not him.
So this morning, I made sure he was okay, what with his broken crown issues and all. Yes. He was awake. Oriented. But he still wanted to snooze. Far be it from me to roll that boy out of bed. I ran to the shower at 10:30. More hot water for me, haha! Only not.
The water was warm when I stepped in. I'm not one to let it run for ten minutes while I sit on the toilet, like both The Pony and #1 seem wont to do. The water seemed to get cooler. Or I was getting used to the temperature. I turned it hotter. Barely noticeable. Then it got cooler. By now, I was ready for a final rinse. I cranked that knob all the way to HOT so I could get out with a nice warm glow. But no. Barely warm. I turned it off. Listened to see if I could hear water in the pipes. Maybe #1 had pulled my trick, and jumped in his shower as soon as I left. Nope. Further investigation revealed #1 still asleep.
I sent Farmer H a text. "We need a new water heater. I took a shower without even #1 interrupting, and it was barely warm. I cannot go through winter without a hot shower. This water heater is 16 years old. Every two years, you drag it outside and dig the stuffings out of the bottom. I think we can afford a new water heater." Yeah. I AM a bit long-winded in my texts.
Farmer H sent back that he would fix the water heater. He came home and went right to work. "I got a new heating element. It always goes bad because of the hard water and lime buildup. I'll take it out and put in the new element. Take about an hour." He called for his Pony, who had to change out of his dress slacks first. They set to work.
One hour later..."I'm going down to Lowe's for a new water heater. I can't get that one back in."
Yes. Ding dong, the water heater's dead. Which old water heater? The original old water heater. Ding dong, the water heater's dead.
One of these days, Farmer H is going to take my advice, and do something the right way the first time. He had The Pony's truck with him at work. He could have picked up a water heater between work and home, and installed it in less than an hour. So now he's taken his little helper down to Lowe's. They've been gone 90 minutes. Still have to install it when they get back.
It's a good thing Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not dirty.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
A Tale Of The Macabre From The Mansion
No rainbows and unicorns here. Look away if you're easily upset. This is your warning. Turn back now. Skedaddle. Go grab some home-churned buttermilk and pet a pretty puppy. If you believe in foreshadowing, here's a line from "Atlantic City." The Levon Helm version, by The Band. I'm partial to Levon Helm. Ever since he was THE coal miner in Coal Miner's Daughter. So here's the lyric:
"Everything dies. Baby, that's a fact. But maybe everything that dies someday comes back."
You'll come back and analyze this later. I'm sure. If you have the guts to continue. Are your doors locked? Are the lights ablaze? Grab a flashlight. Don't want to take a chance on the power going off. Might as well grab some Puffs With Lotion, too. In case you're tender-hearted or sentimental. Play that Levon Helm song on a loop as you read.
As you know, the Hillbilly family has goats. We have, at times, had as many as 17, I think. Then Farmer H tired of the novelty of the kids, and started selling or fixing his bucks. We were down to six goats when Farmer H traded two of them for the mini pony. And that guy bought two more. So that left us with only two. Our very first caprine, Goatrude. And the lovely Nellie, she of the long flowing hair, an angora, that Farmer H bought from one of his friends who couldn't keep her anymore. "Treat her right. She's my wife's pet." And we did. Nellie even gave us a set of darling triplets. Who knew such an old goat had it in her? She was a gentle soul, with beautiful blue eyes, even though they had that weird rectangular pupil that goats are famous for. Nellie was not the Einstein of the goat world. She was always getting her head stuck in the fence, her horns at that peculiar angle that prevented her from getting it back out. So Farmer H taped a spoiler to her head.
We have had animals die before. Dogs. Cats. Bunnies. Chicks. A plethora of chickens. Turkeys that Farmer H fed to death, or the one that was...erm...LOVED to death by her intended mate. And we lost Longhorn, the oldest goat, to old age. Depending on their size and closeness to the family, some pets are buried, and others are honored with a funeral pyre.
Tuesday evening, Farmer H went out to feed before supper. He came back shortly. "Nellie is down and can't get up. I noticed she has been slower and slower to come running when I dump out the food. Now she's just laying there, kicking her legs. I've got to put her down." Don't go thinking this is cruel. Everything dies, that's a fact. No need for it to be a slow, lingering death. Anybody who eats has a hand in dispatching other living organisms. Not that we planned to eat Nellie. But seriously, unless you can perform photosynthesis, you kill to eat. Even carrots let out a death cry.
Farmer H went thumping down the basement steps to the safe. He got out his 9mm that he keeps for such emergencies. I did not hear him mention it to The Pony. I was hoping The Pony was oblivious. Because, even though he doesn't really care about helping people, The Pony has a soft spot where those animals are concerned. I set about chopping onions for our tacos for supper. I heard a shot down in the woods. Then another. Those darn onions really made my eyes tear up.
Farmer H came in the front door and thumped back down to the basement. I heard the workshop door. Then he came back upstairs. "The Veteran is coming out to help me. I've already got a fire started. I don't want anything left. I'll be a while."
I got supper ready for the boys. The Pony won't eat tacos, so he had some chicken tenders. #1 and I each took a 10-inch tortilla and built ourselves rather impressive giant burritos. Who needs tacos?
The front door opened. It was Farmer H. "She's STILL not dead! I've got to get my gun again. She's still kicking her legs."
"I don't want to know! That's just cruel. She was that lady's pet! You promised to take good care of her." How hard is it to get that right?"
"I don't know. I'm trying." Back down to the safe for the 9mm. I heard two more shots. Farmer H was gone a couple of hours. The next morning, he said, "There shouldn't be nothing but bones left now. We had a really hot fire. It was still burning when I came to the house." He went off to work. I slept in.
Around 9:00, I called my mom to chat. "No, we're not coming in today. Unless you need something. It's cold. Wait. I think The Pony wanted to download something. We'll run by for about an hour, if it won't interfere with your therapy lady. Okay. Around 11:00, maybe. Just a minute. HEY! PONY! Come up here. Ann's in the front yard, and I'm afraid she's eating a chicken! She's got something black in her mouth. Come check."
The Pony galloped up the stairs and flung open the front door. "What IS that? I think she has a squirrel. No. A rabbit. It's still alive. I see feet kicking. No. Wait a minute. It's a piece of something, with scraps hanging off, and she's shaking it. I think she has a piece of charred goat."
"NOOOO! I don't want to know! I wish I'd never called you up here. I wish I'd never opened the shades! Gotta go, Mom. We'll be there later."
I pointedly ignored the front yard area as we went up the driveway. I had put the incident out of my mind by the time we left Mom's. When we returned home, I let The Pony out at the end of the driveway to pull the big green trash dumpster down the driveway ahead of T-Hoe. He parked it by the porch and came through the people door of the garage after I parked.
"Hey, that neighbor horse was giving you the eye. Like, 'What kind of creature would pull a wheeled conveyance behind him like a common beast of burden?'"
"Don't look on the front porch."
"Why?"
"There's a skull. My first thought was to send a text to Dad with a picture of it, saying, 'Nellie says Hi.'"
"NOOO! That is SO wrong! What's the matter with you? Don't you dare!"
"I won't. It's just what I thought of."
"No. Not even your dad deserves that."
Yep. Sometimes, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's life is like a Seinfeld episode. Other times, it's like a Stephen King novel.
"Everything dies. Baby, that's a fact. But maybe everything that dies someday comes back."
You'll come back and analyze this later. I'm sure. If you have the guts to continue. Are your doors locked? Are the lights ablaze? Grab a flashlight. Don't want to take a chance on the power going off. Might as well grab some Puffs With Lotion, too. In case you're tender-hearted or sentimental. Play that Levon Helm song on a loop as you read.
As you know, the Hillbilly family has goats. We have, at times, had as many as 17, I think. Then Farmer H tired of the novelty of the kids, and started selling or fixing his bucks. We were down to six goats when Farmer H traded two of them for the mini pony. And that guy bought two more. So that left us with only two. Our very first caprine, Goatrude. And the lovely Nellie, she of the long flowing hair, an angora, that Farmer H bought from one of his friends who couldn't keep her anymore. "Treat her right. She's my wife's pet." And we did. Nellie even gave us a set of darling triplets. Who knew such an old goat had it in her? She was a gentle soul, with beautiful blue eyes, even though they had that weird rectangular pupil that goats are famous for. Nellie was not the Einstein of the goat world. She was always getting her head stuck in the fence, her horns at that peculiar angle that prevented her from getting it back out. So Farmer H taped a spoiler to her head.
Tuesday evening, Farmer H went out to feed before supper. He came back shortly. "Nellie is down and can't get up. I noticed she has been slower and slower to come running when I dump out the food. Now she's just laying there, kicking her legs. I've got to put her down." Don't go thinking this is cruel. Everything dies, that's a fact. No need for it to be a slow, lingering death. Anybody who eats has a hand in dispatching other living organisms. Not that we planned to eat Nellie. But seriously, unless you can perform photosynthesis, you kill to eat. Even carrots let out a death cry.
Farmer H went thumping down the basement steps to the safe. He got out his 9mm that he keeps for such emergencies. I did not hear him mention it to The Pony. I was hoping The Pony was oblivious. Because, even though he doesn't really care about helping people, The Pony has a soft spot where those animals are concerned. I set about chopping onions for our tacos for supper. I heard a shot down in the woods. Then another. Those darn onions really made my eyes tear up.
Farmer H came in the front door and thumped back down to the basement. I heard the workshop door. Then he came back upstairs. "The Veteran is coming out to help me. I've already got a fire started. I don't want anything left. I'll be a while."
I got supper ready for the boys. The Pony won't eat tacos, so he had some chicken tenders. #1 and I each took a 10-inch tortilla and built ourselves rather impressive giant burritos. Who needs tacos?
The front door opened. It was Farmer H. "She's STILL not dead! I've got to get my gun again. She's still kicking her legs."
"I don't want to know! That's just cruel. She was that lady's pet! You promised to take good care of her." How hard is it to get that right?"
"I don't know. I'm trying." Back down to the safe for the 9mm. I heard two more shots. Farmer H was gone a couple of hours. The next morning, he said, "There shouldn't be nothing but bones left now. We had a really hot fire. It was still burning when I came to the house." He went off to work. I slept in.
Around 9:00, I called my mom to chat. "No, we're not coming in today. Unless you need something. It's cold. Wait. I think The Pony wanted to download something. We'll run by for about an hour, if it won't interfere with your therapy lady. Okay. Around 11:00, maybe. Just a minute. HEY! PONY! Come up here. Ann's in the front yard, and I'm afraid she's eating a chicken! She's got something black in her mouth. Come check."
The Pony galloped up the stairs and flung open the front door. "What IS that? I think she has a squirrel. No. A rabbit. It's still alive. I see feet kicking. No. Wait a minute. It's a piece of something, with scraps hanging off, and she's shaking it. I think she has a piece of charred goat."
"NOOOO! I don't want to know! I wish I'd never called you up here. I wish I'd never opened the shades! Gotta go, Mom. We'll be there later."
I pointedly ignored the front yard area as we went up the driveway. I had put the incident out of my mind by the time we left Mom's. When we returned home, I let The Pony out at the end of the driveway to pull the big green trash dumpster down the driveway ahead of T-Hoe. He parked it by the porch and came through the people door of the garage after I parked.
"Hey, that neighbor horse was giving you the eye. Like, 'What kind of creature would pull a wheeled conveyance behind him like a common beast of burden?'"
"Don't look on the front porch."
"Why?"
"There's a skull. My first thought was to send a text to Dad with a picture of it, saying, 'Nellie says Hi.'"
"NOOO! That is SO wrong! What's the matter with you? Don't you dare!"
"I won't. It's just what I thought of."
"No. Not even your dad deserves that."
Yep. Sometimes, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's life is like a Seinfeld episode. Other times, it's like a Stephen King novel.
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