Aside from upcoming tales of our trek across Missouri into Oklahoma, this might be the last home-grown story of the wisdom of The Pony.
Several weeks ago, when a biorhythm chart of my weirdo magnet power might have shown a lofty peak...I turned T-Hoe onto our gravel road and saw more freeloading creek squatters.
"I find it especially annoying that they PARK BETWEEN THE NO TRESPASSING SIGNS! I want to hold up my phone. Like I'm taking a picture of their license plates for prosecution. Like the SIGN says. Or holler, 'Why are you here? Do you live here?' That's what Buddy used to do. He'd chase them in his truck. But even if I yelled, they would pretend they didn't hear me."
"We should put in a mine field."
"A minefield? I'm not THAT mad at them. Don't you think that's a little extreme? I don't want to blow their heads off! So I don't think a minefield will be necessary. I know you don't really care about helping people, but sometimes I start to worry that you want to--"
"No. I said MIME field! A field of MIMES! To make them stop."
"Heh, heh! What would they do? Stand up in their black pants and black-and-white striped shirt, and hold up a white-gloved hand? Palm out?"
"They could pretend to be behind an invisible wall. So the trespassers would stop, because they didn't want to drive into it!"
"And if they didn't? What could a mime do? Shake a finger back-and-forth. Stick out his bottom lip and wipe an imaginary tear?"
"If they drove past, the mime could pretend to lasso them!"
"Yeah! And reel them back in!"
"Click on handcuffs, toss them in the slammer, throw away the key, and grab the bars, looking in."
"And we could put up a big sign to warn them:
CAUTION: MIME FIELD. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK."
I am sorely going to miss brainstorming with The Pony.