A Sordid Tale From Little Val's Childhood

Let's travel back in time, shall we, to the days when Val was Little Val, attending school in an old brick building with creaky wooden floors, transoms above the doors, hissing radiators, cloakrooms, slate blackboards, heavy one-piece brown metal desks with built-in metal chairs that swiveled, and wooden desktops that raised for storing books and Big Chief tablets, with a grooved tray for fat wooden pencils.

When the highlight of the school day was running at breakneck speed over the crumbly asphalt playground surrounded by a granite chunk fence with mortar chipping away, capped by curved concrete, with a thick metal pipe skewered through the pillars, worn smooth by so many kid butts. Like this fence, though the original Little Val fence is long gone.

When nobody cared if we played red rover, slammed each other on the teeter-totter, swung so high on those black rubber swing seats that the chains went slack, picked up Maple tree whirligigs off the ground to stuff in our mouths and make screeching sounds, or lined up for captains' pick for kickball.

Back then, Little Val was what one might call smart as a whip, sharp as a tack, bright as a button. She was fraught with success. Her mind was to academic 'A's like Midas's finger to gold. Little Val was not shy about volunteering answers. It irked her, in fact, when the teacher would pointedly overlook her frantically-waving arm and choose another child to enlighten the class. But Little Val was brought up well. She did not show her displeasure, but only waved more frantically the next time. Because surely, it must have been a lack of attention by the teacher. A mere oversight.

So Little Val did not hold back that day her third-grade teacher, Mrs. Elvins, in her cat's-eye glasses, asked who could tell the class the name of the 13th President of the United States. It did not matter that Little Val, in her own cat's-eye glasses, had been absent the day before, due to an unfortunate orthopedic injury resulting from an evening of cautious roller-skating around her next-door grandpa's sidewalk, where the outside bump of the chimney proved that Little Val was not so accomplished at changing direction on wheels. A slow-motion fall from her strap-on, adjustable-length, metal roller skates that inflicted a greenstick fracture upon Little Val's left forearm, and garnered her a hard white cast from thumb to mid-humerus, held at an upright angle by a cloth sling that looked very much like her mother's dish towel.

Mrs. Elvins whipped the class into a frenzy. Somebody must remember the 13th President of the United States! Somebody...somebody... She even gave a little clue: "I know you remember! His name was Millard...Millard..." One by one, classmates were called upon, voicing reasonable answers, though incorrect. Little Val was on her knees in her chair, right arm flagging back-and-forth, to show Mrs. Elvins that indeed, SOMEBODY did know the name of the 13th President of the United States! Mrs. Elvins looked and looked. No more hands waved. Except that of Little Val.

"Oh, I'll bet Little Val can tell us the 13th President of the United States, can't you, Little Val?" Little Val nodded, still on her knees, still waving her good arm. "Tell everyone, then, Little Val! The 13th President of the United States was Millard..."

"HIGH LIFE!"

It sounded so right as it leapt from Little Val's lips. So right. Yet so wrong. Mrs. Elvins was speechless. The rest of the class hee-hawed and whooped and hollered, a couple of the rowdier boys even falling from their seats.

And that, by blog friends, was the moment Little Val realized that people found her hilarious.

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Thanks to blog buddy Joe H for the inspiration.

The Bank Needs a Triage System

Don't be that guy. At least don't come to Backroads and be that guy. That guy who pulls into the bank's drive-thru lane, but not all the way up to the canister-sucker, and sits there, holding the spot, preventing others from using it.

Don't be that guy. The one who tempts me to pull in behind him, because the other drive-thru lane has a line. Don't come down here to my little bank with only three drive-thru lanes, and one of them always closed. Don't. Just don't. Especially on a day when I'm in a hurry.

Don't be that guy who finally finishes balancing his checkbook for the very first time since he started working, his retirement having gone into effect July 1st. That guy who is counting out his money, which he should have done in his counting house, while the queen was eating bread and honey, and the maid was hanging out the clothes, about to be de-nosed by a blackbird. That guy who succumbs to narcolepsy, grows a long white beard, and answers to Rip Van Winkle through the vacuum-tube speaker.

I SPENT 15 MINUTES WAITING IN LINE BEHIND ONE CAR!

My transaction took ONE MINUTE. Uh huh. All I had to do was deposit a check. I did not tarry to play a game of tic tac toe (best 13 out of 25, apparently) like that guy ahead of me, what with putting something in the canister, sending it in, taking something out, putting something back, sending it in again, etc.

Don't be that guy.

Don't be that guy if Val is close enough to get ahold of you!

A Game of Hick and Mouse

Hick is no lover of mice. He has a not-quite phobia of them.

On the occasion when we would get a cute little big-eared field mouse in the house during the first cold snap, Genius was our go-to guy. He'd set the trap, the old-fashioned kind with that snappy bar, after many a sore-fingered trial, and dispose of the critter when trapping was successful. Genius, in fact, was so tender-hearted that he told me, upon one such disposal, "It wasn't quite dead yet, Mom, and I couldn't stand to kill it, so I threw it out on the front porch so the animals could get it." Yeah. I raised a real charmer.

Years ago, when Genius was an infant, and The Pony was a surprise waiting to happen, Hick and his older boys went to the BARn to clean up some junk and work on the Coca Cola loft. According to the boys, Hick grabbed their coveralls off a nail and started putting his on. He reached his hand into the pockets, and started dancing around, making a commotion, and stripped out of those coveralls forthwith.

"You should have seen him, Val," said the oldest, about 14 at the time. "He screamed like a little girl and started flapping his hands! His pockets were full of baby mice, pink, without any hair on them. He made us clean out the pockets and stomp on them."

I guess this experience stuck with Hick. We came home one evening to find him burning the yard. Yeah. Not the best plan for a house covered with cedar siding, surrounded by a wraparound wooden porch. From the look of the char, that fire had been within three feet of the porch. At that moment, the wind had shifted, and it was creeping out into the field part of the yard. The dogs and cats were laying along the burning edge.

"Get those animals away from the fire! What are they doing?"

"They're not hurtin' nothin'. A lawn grows back healthier after a burn. The conservation department does it all the time up in the state park. Watch."

Every few minutes, one of the pets pounced. They were waiting for mice to run from the fire. Hick did not seem to mind. It might have been his plan all along.

Relations weren't always so fractious between Hick and the rodents. He tells a story of his lowest moment. He had just been divorced, and was renting a ratty trailer in a park just off the highway. His mobile home overlooked the park's sewage lagoon. It was almost Christmas. He had lost his partial plate, and was depressed because he was getting ready for his factory's Christmas dinner celebration. "There I was, all alone, with only the thought of that prime rib to cheer me up, and I knew I wouldn't be able to chew it because my teeth were gone. They'd been missing for two weeks. I couldn't afford new teeth. Besides, the dinner was in a couple of hours. I sat there on the toilet with my head in my hands, feeling sorry for myself. I heard something, and looked up. There was a little hole along the baseboard. A mouse hole. And something was stuck in it. I got down and reached in, and it was my partial plate! I washed it off under the faucet, and left for the dinner. That was one of my best Christmases ever."

I guess the game of Hick and mouse is give and take.

Caution. Mature Readership Advised. Hope You're Not Eating. You Have Been Warned.

Three dead mice. Three dead mice.
See how they lay. See how they lay.
They all surprised Thevictorian Val.
Who only saw one, our nearsighted old gal.
But was tipped off forthwith by The Pony, her pal.
To THREE dead mice.

I stepped out on the porch tonight to call The Pony and Hick away from Hick's Folly The Sword Shack in progress. I almost stepped on a dead mouse. "Well. Ain't THAT a kick in the head?. Almost. For that little mousie. I guess the cats have left me another gift."

My sweet, sweet Juno, such a lady, would never disturb a present left for her human mom. No sirree, Bob! Despite Hick's aspersions cast her way, Juno is a good egg. Though according to Hick, she has eaten many a good egg. Daily. So this tiny deceased rodent was smack dab in front of my front door. It's not quite a horse's head in the bed, but it is a bit disconcerting. Let the record show that this is not the first dead mouse I have found at the door.

I proceeded down to the end of the porch and started tossing old bread to the chickens. I hope they like Nutty Oat. We have eleven chicks that are perhaps 1/4 grown up. They are quite cute, a variety of colors, some brave and some sticking close to their hatcher. Of course the dogs ran over from Hick's Folly The Sword Shack for their share. Let the record show that they were not full from eating purloined eggs, and they did not even stop to sniff at the rodent appetizer. Perhaps they are going vegan.

Hick and The Pony took off their hardhats and tool belts, loosened their steel-toed boots, and made their way to the house. Not really. Hick only had his hard head, and he couldn't take that off. The Pony was in Adidas slides, no steel toes for him. One of these days OSHA is going to shut down Hick's Construction Company Inc. The Pony trotted over ahead of Hick and his Gator.

"Oh, yeah. The mice."

"It's a mouse."

"No....MICE."

"Wait! I see the other one under the window!"

"Actually, there are three. There's one down by Genius's room."

"OH! Get me some pictures!"

These are the mice. I'll keep the photos small this time. No need to show a lack of respect for death. Because I could not photograph death, The Pony kindly photographed it for me.

This is the one directly in front of the door. Looks like he had the poop scared out of him, but that was just a gift from one of the chickens that Juno couldn't chase off the porch fast enough.

A bonus mouse was in front of Genius's bedroom window. The flies have befriended this one, and are treating his body like an amusement park a giant buffet.

This one, chilling under the living room window, is quite possibly a baby mole. I didn't turn him over to see his snout, but in an enlargement of this picture, his feet look especially mole-like.

Yes, I could have done without this rodent trifecta today. Thank goodness my men cleared the porch of them...

Who are we kidding? Those mice are still out there on the porch. It would NEVER occur to Hick or The Pony to move them. They just step over them. Or take pictures if I command. Kick them off the porch? Get the broom? Scoop them up with a blue plastic snow shovel that was last used to whack the aggressive banty rooster flying through the air with his talons aimed at Hick's stomach? Nope. They just step over such obstacles until told (more than once) to get rid of them.

Excuse me. I've got some orders to give.

These are the mice
who scared our Val
who called to The Pony
who loves the swords
that will hang in the Folly that Hick built.

It Takes a Village Idiot to Raise a Shack

Hick has not completely finished his Little Barbershop of Horrors. I know that comes as a shock to you, but around here it is the norm. The standard of construction. Par for the course. The status quo. Hick never finishes one building before he starts another.

The latest project is a combined effort between Hick and The Pony. That means Hick is doing the building, but the building is for The Pony. Hick thought it up all by himself, because he was running out of things to build. He still has an old schoolhouse in mind for down by the creek. But that would be down by the creek. Which means he would not be out front getting attention from anybody with a four-wheeler who drives by.

The new building is what The Pony and I call The Sword Shack. It will be a place for The Pony to keep his swords and knives and daggers and knights and Roman and Greek memorabilia. So sayeth Hick, because he does not like The Pony's room to be cluttered with so many collectibles. Nobody out-collects Hick.

Here is the beginning of The Sword Shack:

That's just the floor. The base for the floor. It rests in a place of honor next to the Little Barbershop of Horrors, just this side of the small sinkhole. Notice that turkey on the left? That's not a statue. Not some plastic target for a bow-hunter. That's Hick's turkey. Not the original Tom, the one he was caught lifting up and chanting, "Who's a big fat turkey? Huh? Who's a big fat turkey? HIM'S a big fat turkey!" Not Tom II, the one that "loved" a pretty white paramour to death within 10 minutes of Hick leaving them alone together. No, this is the current turkey, simply called Turkey, the one The Pony and I wattle-blocked one day when we came up the driveway a half-hour earlier, scaring a gray wild hen back into the woods. Much to the dismay of the fanned-out, strutting Turkey. This is the one that follows Hick around like a dog, and talks back to him when he makes turkey noises.

The Sword Shack currently looks like this:

It has two walls so far, and a bunch of boards to be used later, and a frame for the door. The Pony is outside as I type, knocking more boards loose from skids Hick brought home from work at some point. You know, those heavy-duty pallets that forklifts stick their forks under and haul around the plant. I'm not sure how old they are, but Hick's workplace used to let guys bid on scrap lumber. Nothing goes to waste when Hick is around. Except maybe the runny part of the soup.

I think The Pony may be able to pick up some spending money for college if he offers tours of his fine facility to patrons of my proposed handbasket factory.

All I know for sure is that this little project has been keeping Hick out of my poorly-coiffed, chemically-treated hair this summer. And it gets The Pony off the couch.

That's a good thing.

One of These Days, the World Is Gonna Recognize Val's Brand

Val has been busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. Not a woman. A woman practices butt-kicking all day long. Has perfected it, really. And is a multitasker. Nope. Val has been busier than a one-legged MAN in a butt-kicking contest. In fact, she has been a two-armed woman kicking her own butt in a writing-submitting contest. Or something like that.

In the past 30 days, I have sent off 7 submissions. Okay. So they're only to contests. Nothing that's going to gain me fame and fortune. But it's a start. A priming of Val's creative-juices pump. Funny how hard it is to write humor when your heart is breaking. I really haven't been all that into dancing with the one what brung me since February. But I'm making an effort. I've climbed back on the horse. I'm back in the saddle. Trying to round up Old Bossy and get back on the trail, rejoin the drive.

Perhaps one of these days, you will sink your teeth into a juicy, succulent story, and think: "This is so delicious, it must have been part of Val's herd."

How The Pony Forages Away From the Farm

Here's how The Pony survived a week at Boys State with his limited food preferences.

"I ate whatever they gave us. For breakfast they had pancakes. Or waffles. Sausage patties and sometimes sticks. They had scrambled eggs quite often. I don't remember anything else."

"Lunch was a hamburger one day. Chicken patty the next. I can't remember the lunches. They just weren't memorable."

"For dinner? One night I could tell it was some kind of chicken. But it didn't have any taste. Everyone agreed it was tasteless chicken. Then I we had turkey, I think. Ham. Most often they had some kind of meat. One night they had...I don't know WHAT it was. Meat, maybe."

"Was it in gravy or something."

"Almost all the meat was in gravy."

"What did you have to drink."

"I didn't know we could get water until Wednesday! It was way off to the side of everything. We always had pitchers of DRINK on our table. That's what it was labeled. It was different every night. Strawberry drink. Grape drink. Orange drink. Fruit punch drink! The grape drink was the best. I got to the table first, and when I saw we were having grape drink, I poured myself a full glass and drank it. Then I poured another full glass and drank it. Then I poured my glass and sat down. They never knew I was drinking it all. We only got two pitchers a night for the whole table."

"So I guess somebody went without drink."

"No, not without. But not everybody got more than one."

Always the problem-solver. My little Pony.