I Stumped Ol' Stumpy!

Mrs. HM is a freakin' genius! Or at least a semi-proficient researcher.

Tuesday, I was walking back to T-Hoe with the lone piece of mail in my hand, when I saw something in the middle of the road. Pretty much the exact middle, where the stripes would be painted if our county blacktop road had a center line. I bent over to pick it up.

Huh. It was heavy! What in the Not-Heaven? Was it a magnet? Stuff was stuck on the back of it. Maybe it was part of the latch on EmBee. It's been broken for a while. But it's a round magnet, and a rectangular piece of metal to stick to. That piece of metal, last I saw, was in the butt-end of EmBee.

I picked up that intriguing piece of roadsam, to bring back to the Mansion and ask Farmer H. After soaking in water and Dawn dish detergent for a few hours, I scrubbed it as clean as I could. I took it to Farmer H.

"Look what I found in the road down by the mailboxes. Is it part of our magnet?"

"No. That's no magnet."

"It's really heavy. Do you think it's lead?"

"Yeah. That's lead."

"I got it as clean as I could. Is there anything else you can think of that will clean it up? Make it shiny? Does vinegar interact with lead?"

"I don't think it would hurt it, but it might turn it black."

"Yeah. It's clean enough. I'm not really going to do anything with it. It says 1/2 OZ FE. I think it's heavier than a half-ounce. Maybe it means it's one 2-ounce piece. And FE means iron. Do you think it's iron?"

"It's lead. It feels like 1/2 ounce to me."

"I wonder what it's for? A little scale, maybe? Do you think a drug dealer was using it to measure out his dealings?"

"It's possible. Like a little postage scale, maybe. They use those."

"Huh. Well. I'm taking it downstairs to my office."

Here's the object, all prettied up and posed on top of a Pepcid lid:

The back has no writing. It was kind of gunky with black stuff and road dust, so I had to scrub it with my fingernail, even after soaking. There's no writing on the back. It's 1 inch long, and 1/2 inch wide, and 1/4 inch thick. The base is a little wider than the top, though you can't tell it by this picture.

There it is, on end. I did a little research on the innernets. Looks like Farmer H doesn't know what he's talking about. He can go around, stumping on his footless ankles (from the sound of him walking above my head while I'm in my dark basement lair), all puffed-up in the knowledge that his knowledge is the most knowledgeable knowledge ever acknowledged... but I know he's WRONG! On this one, anyway.

My little metal lozenge is neither lead nor part of a scale.

It's a wheel weight used to balance tires. It's iron. Some of them have a little flap that gets hooked on a tire rim, and others come with adhesive backs. I guess this had the adhesive, and fell off a tire. That would be the gummy part I scrubbed off.

You'd think Farmer H, the gearhead, would know about a weight used for balancing tires!

Now I wonder what else he's told me over the years that isn't accurate.

Back On The Complain Train

I'm sure you're shocked that Mrs. HM has something to complain about. It's SO not like her to voice displeasure. But the fact remains that The Universe conspires against her, and her little Pony, too.

Look what I got in the mail Monday:

Uh huh. It's a letter that I write lovingly every week rush to come up with around midnight on Thursdays to mail on Fridays, to The Pony at his college apartment. He lives in university housing. It's not like he rents a tool shed out back of junkyard. He's lived in the same place for three years now. I've been sending him mail to the same address. Written the same way on the envelope. Sure, it takes 8 days to get there, when Genius's letters only take 4 to Kansas City, and that includes a weekend. But it generally gets there.

You might notice on the redacted envelope that my writing is not a chicken-scratch. It's perfectly legible. Spaced accordingly. Nothing ambiguous about my penmanship. Yet my little Pony's letter has been returned to me as UNDELIVERABLE!

Not only returned as UNDELIVERABLE, but returned 38 DAYS after it was originally mailed!

That is unacceptable! I sent The Pony a picture, with the caption:

"What is WRONG with your mail people out there?"

"That would explain the gap in the numbering." The Pony is a factual kind of fellow, and notices the mailing date of his letters. Mainly because sometimes he goes weeks without getting one, and then three appear in his mailbox.

"I will open it, and enclose it with the one I send this Friday. I'm going by the dead mouse smelling post office to ask what's wrong with the address."

"Has Dad's come in yet?" [The check from The Pony's professor for that lab work Farmer H did on July 15. Not sure when The Pony mailed it, but the check was dated July 17.] "I guess that's what I get for using the drop slot and an actual stamp rather than paying straight at the post office counter."

Indeed.

I bellied up the the counter at the dead mouse smelling post office around noon-thirty. Nobody was there. It was so quiet you could hear a mouse die. The little bell on the counter had the sign saying to ring for service. I hate to do that. I don't like to impose on somebody busy not-doing their work. But I didn't want to hang around with my resentment festering until I grew a long white beard, or a line formed behind me.

I gave the bell one tap.

A couple minutes later, a kid came out of the back room. He looked about The Pony's age of 21, with a short beard instead of The Pony's flowing locks.

"What can I help you with?"

"I have a complaint, and a question. Neither of which involve this specific office. I got this letter returned today, and I don't know why it took 38 days to get back to me."

Baby-Faced Beardy took a look. He peeled off one of the yellow stickers that were on top of each other. I first thought he was trying to see the edge of my writing, to see if the address was good. But no, he was looking at the underlying yellow sticker.

"Huh. This was July 26."

"That's still A MONTH after it was mailed. Before they even said it couldn't be delivered."

"Yeah. I don't know why that part took so long. But they've (here he gave a chuckle) put this sticker on saying it was undeliverable, without giving a reason WHY it was undeliverable. So it went back there, and they just said it was undeliverable again, and put the RETURN TO SENDER on it. They shouldn't have done that. There should be a reason why it couldn't be delivered."

By this time, he had peeled both the yellow stickers off the envelope, and was kind of tapping the envelope on the counter.

"What do you want us to do for you?"

He said that in a polite way, really trying to help, not in a smart-a$$ way, mocking me. Like maybe did I want him to send it again. Perhaps giving me free postage for my trouble, though he did not suggest it himself.

"Oh, I'll just open it up and mail it again this week. Is there something I should do about the address? Why is it coming back? I've used that address for three years."

"Have you gotten them back before?"

"Once or twice. It always seems like it's in the summer. Like maybe they get new student workers or something at the college. But I don't know how the post office works. If students are allowed to handle or deliver the campus mail."

"Does he still live there in the summer?"

"Yes. Nothing changes."

"Well, it could be their sorter. If it happens again, take it to the main post office over in Sis-Town."

"That's what I did before. They got on their computer and looked up the address, and said that's how it should be written. But I thought I'd ask here this time, in case anything had changed."

"They didn't say why it was undeliverable, so I don't know. Sorry that I can't be of more help."

"That's okay. Just thought I'd check."

See there? A young person who knows how to unruffle an old lady's feathers by being polite, and revealing a bit about the sticker mistake made by his far-away cohorts.

Customer service isn't really that hard.

Revealing My New Trick

You're never too old to learn! I think I've developed a new way to control Farmer H.

Let the record show that Farmer H enjoys watching old TV shows. He seems to have moved on from MASH for a while. His current favorite seems to be The Andy Griffith Show. He can tell me the plot of every episode, when I sit down on the short couch and make the mistake and asking what's going to happen. He knows as much about Andy Griffith as I know about Seinfeld. Anyhoo... it is obvious that Farmer H is not averse to the black & white format.

When I sit in the La-Z-Boy every morning, waiting for my medicine to digest, perusing the innernets on HIPPIE, I have the TV on. Not many good shows at that time. It used to be Beverly Hills 90210, but they moved it to 1:00. So I mainly have one ear on Charmed. But sometimes, I'll see what's on TCM. Some of those old black & white movies are pretty good, though I don't like many of them pre-1941.

Sunday, there was a Shirley Temple marathon, I guess. I caught the end of The Hagen Girl. Then saw the beginning of Almost a Bride. Resting after my trip to town, I got caught up in Kathleen. I still haven't seen the end. Don't tell me! I set it to record when I went downstairs for lunch.

Anyhoo... here's where I'm pretty sure I'm a genius. Once I'm ready to go downstairs, I put the TV on a channel I think will appeal to Farmer H. I even search ahead, to see what movies are coming up. He's a sucker for Bad Moms. And he also likes Road House. The trick is... if Farmer H comes in the house and sees something on TV he likes, he'll sit down and watch. Oh, he THINKS he'll only be there a few minutes. But he usually watches until the end.

Sunday, for instance. I heard him come home from his Storage Unit Store sometime between 3:30 and 4:00. I heard the La-Z-Boy. When I went upstairs to make supper, Farmer H was still watching TCM.

"Who's that? Shirley Temple?"

"Nah. That ain't her."

"I'm pretty sure it is. I was watching her earlier today. I know that's Cary Grant. Give me the remote. Uh huh! It IS Shirley Temple! See?" [The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer]

"Oh, well. It didn't look like her. I got to watching John Wayne earlier."

"John Wayne? I thought it was Shirley Temple day."

"It was the one where he's at a fort."

"Well. That could be most of them. I bet Shirley Temple was in it, though." [Fort Apache]

Not that it matters. Just pointing out to Farmer H his illogical reasoning. But the point I'm here to make is that I can kind of control Farmer H's movements by putting the TV on something that will lure him in! Then he doesn't come down to my lair and bother me, or ask me to go do something for him! I'm free as a bird until time to get his supper ready!

Of course, he's probably just being quiet, not even watching, while he plans the next scenario where he tries to kill me.

Every Time I Speak Up For Myself, I Reveal That I'm A Fool

Mrs. HM is not a confrontational person. She'll silently fume, and type her hands off when she feels she's been wronged... but she rarely questions perceived slights in the moment. Friday, that changed. No more Mrs. Milquetoast!

I stopped by Country Mart for a few groceries. Cheese sticks, Vidalia onions, instant oatmeal, store-brand potato chips, Roasted Garlic Triscuits, frozen fish, and Farmer H's individual ice cream cups with the strawberry and chocolate swirl. As I walked by their hot food counter, I spied some BBQ Pork Steaks.

Let the record show that Gassy G is dead to me. Also dead to Farmer H, dead to the world. He can no longer perform. So we've been without barbecue all summer! When I was still teaching, my mom brought me a BBQ pork steak from Country Mart one evening when I had to stay for parent conferences. It was delicious. So of course I wanted a BBQ Pork Steak when I saw one. They don't have them every day.

I stepped up to the counter and asked for one. No sides. I didn't want a meal. Just a pork steak. The gal put it in a foam container, and wrote on top of it when I asked to pay at the main register when I was done shopping. Farmer H has eaten there before. He's even had the pork steak meal, sitting in their seating area with The Veteran. I, myself, do not go there to eat. Not just because they had that unfortunate case of E. coli a while back.

Anyhoo... I got in line and put my groceries on the conveyor. I held up the foam container. I didn't need it in a bag, but I wanted the cashier to see it so I didn't accidentally steal it. She looked at the number written on top...

... and said, "Nine sixty-one."

"Whoa! That seems like a lot!" No way did I think a single BBQ Pork Steak cost that much.

"Oh. It's just a number. We need it to put in the register. It costs $3.99."

"That's good! I was worried for a minute!"

I'm sure I'm not the only person ever to make that mistake, but it was embarrassing. It will be a while before I open my mouth there again. I even waited until I was back in T-Hoe before I checked the receipt to make sure they gave me the $1.49 discount on my mozzarella string cheese, and the two boxes of Triscuits for $5.00. They did.

In case you're interested in that pork steak hiding inside the container,

... it was HUGE! And much tastier than this picture would have you believe. The yellow on the end is actually a reflection from a bag of Lay's Potato Chips sitting on the cutting block.

I didn't plan on sharing, but I cut it in half for Farmer H, and we paired it with SLAW and Loaded Potato Salad that I got earlier in the week from the Devil's Playground deli.

Surely you didn't think I would actually prepare anything with my own two hands.

Trapped Like A Mom In An SUV

There I was, just a-rollin' up the road
Singin' doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy doo
Steerin' the wheel, calm in T-Hoe I rode
Singin' doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy doo

Before I knew it, he had landed next to me
Singin' doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy doo
I yanked my arm, and I wished that I could flee
Singin' doo wah didddy diddy dum diddy doo

We drove on (drove on) to my door (my door)
We drove on to my door, then I blanched a little more

Yeah. I had a strange (and not so musical) encounter on the last half mile home Friday. I was bumping up the poorly-Farmer-H-and-Buddy-blacktopped hill when it happened. A movement in my peripheral vision made me turn and look.

AN INTRUDER WAS HITCHING A RIDE!

Only the thin (okay, thick pane of safety) glass protected me from a deadly sting. Perhaps even death! I was sure of it. I yanked my arm off that ledge, repulsed.

A large stinging critter had settled on the door of T-Hoe. On the rubber weather-stripping on the outside of the window. I watched, mesmerized, as it began to patrol back and forth. Pacing! Waiting for a chance to get at me! If this had happened to Stephen King, we would not have had CUJO.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Had my time come? Was the Grim Reaper sending a surrogate out in the heat, what with his long black robes too steamy for Missouri in August? How could this be normal? Why would an insect (a giant insect) ride along on a T-Hoe for a half mile? No reason I could think of, rather than to STING ME. Again and again! Until I couldn't get away, and succumbed to the venom! It was going to be like The Birds! Only with a single attacker, not a flock.

I was actually getting concerned, as I rolled up the driveway with Copper Jack barking and running alongside, like a dolphin escorting a ship. How was I going to get out of this one? Wait until that beast flew away? He showed no signs of it. I was afraid it might be a yellowjacket. Or a hornet. An insect that means business!

Still it paced. Waiting me out. I took a picture, so show the size of it. And because I didn't have anything else to do while waiting outside the open garage door. But mainly so the coroner could check my phone and see the instrument of my destruction.

You can't see him very well here, because my phone camera decided to focus on the lush greenery rather than the merchant of death. I WAS able to get a closeup.

He wasn't furry, so I ruled out a bee. He's a husky fellow, no tiny waist, so I ruled out a wasp. I was thinking some kind of hornet, or yellowjacket, but the stripes are not as defined or bright yellow, and he doesn't have yellow legs.

The more I got to looking after the fact (oh, yeah, he flew off after about five minutes of pacing)... I have decided that this was most likely a deer fly. Due to the huge head and thick body and almost no antennae that I can see.

Here's a link, if you like trying to solve a mystery.

Don't be thinking that I was not in any danger! A deer fly or horsefly can give a very painful bite, and draw blood, and keep biting!

I am thankful to escape with my skin intact.

Please Don't Wheeze The Char-Mom

There's an ongoing problem at the Mansion, and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom her own self is partially responsible. It's a matter of a good deed not going unpunished.

Last time I did the shopping, I bought a treat for Farmer H. Not a sweet treat, as I'm sure he would have desired more, but a savory treat. A box of 12 individual microwave packets of Orville Redenbacher's Movie Theater Butter Popcorn. Farmer H likes popcorn. He just doesn't know how to make it.

That's a sad fact, but still a fact. It's not like the olden days of our childhood, when popcorn was made by pouring oil into a saucepan, heating it until it sizzled, dropping in a single kernel of popcorn (and quickly putting a lid on) until it popped. Then the rest of the popcorn kernels were poured into the pan. Just enough to cover the bottom. With the lid quickly replaced, shaking could commence. When the popping slowed to almost nothing, the pan was removed from the heat, and the popcorn poured into a bowl. Just add salt, and VOILA! A tasty nighttime treat! My grandma added melted butter, but I was not a fan. I liked my popcorn crunchy, not soggy with butter.

These days, all you need is a microwave, and a little common sense. Let's just say that Farmer H only possesses one of those necessities.

So far, he's made popcorn two nights in a row. I don't hear the process, being in my dark basement lair, but I know when Farmer H pops his popcorn. Yes. The smell of burned popcorn permeates even subterranean levels. I don't think it's actual smoke. I can still see, even though my eyes water from the acrid aroma. I have trouble breathing that befouled air. I get wheezy. I can't escape it.

When I ascend the stairs at 3:00 a.m., it gets worse. The carpet and furniture absorb that odor. But not all of it! They release it for days, too. When I came back from town yesterday, the stench nearly knocked me over as I entered the kitchen.

Here's the thing. Farmer H declares that he sets the microwave on POPCORN to pop his treat. I have told him many times over the years that this is too long. It burns the popcorn. Maybe popcorn packaging has changed since the days of this microwave. Maybe it's always been off. I think that setting goes for about 3:30, as I recall. WAY too long!

I asked Farmer H on Thursday evening, "Are you going to go through all 12 packs before you figure out the right setting NOT to burn your popcorn?"

"I don't know what's wrong! I put it on POPCORN the first night, and it burned. So last night, I put it on 3:00. And it still burned!" He acted like he'd been betrayed by both the microwave and the popcorn. An evil conspiracy to char his treat. Which he ate every kernel of anyway.

"Put it on 2:30. Stand there. If it's still popping pretty fast, punch in another 15 seconds. Take it out if you get a burny smell, or if it slows way down. Not ALL kernels will pop."

Farmer H didn't have any popcorn Thursday night, because he had to quit eating for his doctor appointment the next day. I'm pretty sure he'll forget my advice at the next popping.

Marley Gone Two-Day

In the continuing saga of Farmer H's transgressions, and New Dog Marley...

Sunday evening, Farmer H let Marley out of his pen again. He was mowing (Farmer H, not Marley, wouldn't THAT be a good trick to teach a little white fluffy dog) and said Marley hung around the field. Of course Farmer H didn't tell me this until he came in for supper.

"Is he out there now?"

"He wasn't when I came in."

"This is just like last time! He's gone up to HOS's old place."

"Maybe. He'll come back."

"That's what you said last time."

Farmer H did not seem to be concerned. Like last time. He again said that Marley's pen was open, and he'd come back.

I don't make it a habit to tuck the dogs in at night. I figure they're dogs. They've got many years of evolution providing them with the ability to survive outside at night. Farmer H was in and out of the Mansion on Monday, and left at 4:00 for an auction, so it didn't occur to me to ask about Marley. I figured he'd probably found him sometime through the day. Well. You know what happened when we figured. We made a FIG out of U and RED.

Tuesday, Farmer H was gone all day taking HOSS (HOS's ten-year-old son) to see the Superman statue over in Illinois. He got home around 5:30, mowed a little more, and came in for supper at 6:30.

"Is Marley back in his pen?"

"No. I thought he'd come back Monday, so I didn't go looking for him. I saw him this morning when I went by HOS's old place. But he run down in the woods.

"So he might not have eaten for TWO DAYS?"

"Or he came home to eat and went back up there."

"The dogs were going crazy last night. Maybe Marley came up on the porch and they ran him off."

"I'll go check on him."

Farmer H was gone over 30 minutes, so I sent him a text.

"I guess you didn't find Marley?"

"He's back in the pen. I went up there and found him. He came right over when I called, and I put a rope on his neck. He rode in the Gator. When we got back, he pretty much walked right back in his cage. [I'm sure he meant PEN, but Marley probably thinks of it as a cage!] That's funny, because when I go in to feed him, he tries to run out."

"He was probably starving! You can't keep letting him run off like that."

"I don't like keeping him captive."

"I don't like him living on a vacant lot."

We're not sure yet how to solve a problem like Marley. I think tying him up out here in the yard during the day would be a good start. Then letting him run around while we're outside, and putting him back for the night. As I've said all along.