No Crazier Than a Proposed Handbasket Factory, I Suppose

It will come as no great surprise to you that, as of 4:00 Sunday afternoon, Hick has a new money-making venture lined up to line his pockets with cold hard cash. Or at least limp paper currency. I would love to drag it out. Make you guess his latest entrepreneurial endeavor. But I fear that 10,000 monkeys guessing for 10,000 days with 10,000 hints could not arrive at the truth.

Hick is selling rocks.

Okay, he's not going door-to-door with a briefcase full of stones, pushing pet rocks, promoting stone soup, or proffering affordable weapons for the apopadopalyspe. In fact, this business opportunity fell into his lap. Well, not so much fell into his lap, as clambered up his shin, shoved his belly out of the way, and sat on his knee. Let's let Hick share his newfound fortune with you. The origin of, not the actual as-yet-to-be paid fortune.

"I was working over by the BARn, and this guy came up in here. He was talking to a bunch of people. He wants to buy the rock off our land. You know, like that guy down in the bottom sold his a couple years ago. The big rocks, that they load on a flatbed and sell to landscapers. This guy asked if I was interested. He wanted to look at the land, but I told him no! That we have plenty of rock down behind the house, but it is not for sale! Then I took him up to the boys' 10 acres on the hill. He said there is between $5000 and $7000 worth of rock there. I said I'd get back to him. I've got his card."

"Are you sure you want to do that? I hate it when they tear up the land. The water will run off and make gullies and pretty much carry our land away. It's on the hill, you know. The people at the bottom will end up with our land. AND his big truck will block the road, and tear it up. It will cost us more to fix the road for several years than the rocks will be worth."

"He said there's a place partway up the hill where he can get his truck off. I told him we own that flat part at the top, and he can pull off there."

"You mean by that guy who threatened to shoot you, and you threatened to shoot him, and he got arrested and had to pay $6000 to stay out of jail?"

"Yeah. I told the Rock Guy that the other guy might come out and start something, but just to tell him that I sent him up there."

"That should smooth it over."

"Yeah! And you might as well get used to the idea, because the guy across from the boys' land already told him he'd sell his rocks."

"Which guy? On our road here? By our house?"

"Uh huh. The one with the cabin."

"The one where those boys shot at you with a shotgun and peppered the roof of your cabin with buckshot?"

"Yeah. They weren't shooting at me. They just shot and didn't know what was through the trees. I went and straightened them out."

"I remember. So...that truck will tear up our road on the hill coming to the house, and we will be blocked going in and out."

"No. The Rock Guy will go in from the other side. It's on that V at the bottom. It has frontage on both roads. The truck will park by the boys' land. The cabin guy already has a place clear where he can park."

"I don't know. I guess I don't care. I just hate to see the land torn up."

"We can use that money to build my garage that I'm planning. With the freight containers. To keep from taking out money for it. I'll go see if he's still here. He was going next door."

First of all, I don't know what this Rock Guy was doing up in here. It's a private road. With NO TRESPASSING signs! Sioux saw them on her grand Gas Station Chicken Tour. It's like with a vampire. Solicitors have to be invited in by someone. Or they can be PROSECUTED! The sign says so. Sioux saw it! Anyhoo...Hick came back a couple of hours later.

"The Rock Guy asked me if the land behind our house had those big rocks like Neighbor has behind his house. I said, 'Ours are bigger than Neighbor's rocks! But they're not for sale! We have talked about it, and that's going to be our nest egg when we retire.' So you don't have to worry about me selling our house rocks right now!"

Let the record show that I have never discussed selling our rocks for retirement, with Hick or anyone else. And I'm not sure how beneficial it is to wait until retirement to establish a nest egg. Also, what happens if Rock Guy takes the rocks and doesn't pay? Can we file a police report and take him to court for stealing rocks off our land?

I hope I don't have to serve on the jury for my own rock theft lawsuit!

Now admit it...would you ever have guessed Hick's latest moneymaking venture?

Thar She Blew!

Last week's overnight storm wreaked havoc with the homestead.

Our mini pony dodged a torpedo. That monster crushed the roof of the goat shed. Thank goodness little Barry, the mini pony, prefers other accommodations. It's a good thing we are goatless at the moment. They would have been huddled inside, quaking with fear that...well...that a tree might fall on them!

Here is the damage from the inside. I suppose Hick subjected himself to peril to snap this photo. Notice that the roof beam, or the rafter, or whatever you call it, was snapped. I think that's a 2" x 12". Or was.

The Pony's Sword Shack suffered minor roof damage from the wind. It was lucky, sitting only 20 feet from the trunk of The Crusher.

One of Hick's freight containers was the victim of a different weapon of destruction.

And...down by the creekside cabin, lightning took a toll. Maybe I SHOULD have gotten up to check on the weather. Not that I could have prevented any of this. But we were very lucky to escape unscathed in the main house. The Crusher landed, perhaps, 100 feet from the end of the house. Hick has always patted himself on the back for building it where the trees were not right on top of it. Now I see why. What's a little shade in the summer, compared to a trunk through your bedroom at 3:30 a.m.?

The insurance adjuster is coming tomorrow. Which means Hick has to take off work to be here and show her around. Such a hardship. That Hick is so selfless! In fact, he's so selfless that he also talked to the insurance agent about hail damage on our parked vehicles from last spring. Which requires the auto adjuster, who can't make it until Tuesday. So another day off!

If I didn't know better, I would think Hick was looking for ways to get out of work.

The Patient Survived, But the Doctor Nearly Died

Now you've gone an done it! I TOLD you not to get me started on the piano. This little incident was not even a blip on Val's radar when that piano talk was going on. But now it is. Center target. BEEP BEEP BEEP! Like in Aliens, when Ripley and her crew were trapped, watching those critters come from all directions, surrounding them.

Here's the culprit. The bringer of misery to Thevictorian household. I've hope you've got some weekend time budgeted for a long read. I could put this out in installments, but Val likes to rip off the Band-Aid in one swift motion.

Not only did Hick take Val's rocking chair, the one in which she rocked her sweet, sweet young 'uns, and put it on the porch to be a poster chair for not using Thompson's Water Seal...he parked my mom's piano right in the hall. The hall that leads to The Pony's room on the right, and Genius's room on the left, and the boys' bathroom in the middle. Where I hear all the footsteps at night. Beside my cabinet full of my grandma's dishes, and a set of red depression glass dishes that she insisted I take as well. Let the record show that Grandma had about 29 sets of dishes. So nobody went without.

Let the record show that Thevictorian household needs another piano like Hick needs another hole in his head. We already have the piano that was my grandma's. It came from Little Val's long-ago elementary school auditorium, before the building was razed to make a fabulous blacktop-covered-with-pea-gravel playground for Little Val and her cohorts. Not many lawsuits back then, my friends. Children were ripe for the maiming. Wore their battle scars proudly.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. The piano that caused a bit of a rift with my sister the ex-mayor's wife, because they wanted to donate it to the church in Mom's name. Sorry. Mom was not the kind to be donating a piano to the church. Sis even said, pointedly, as if I was a heathen found in the woods at the age of--didn't really think I'd reveal that, now did you--having been raised by wolves, "You know, when somebody dies, it is customary for the family to donate something to the church in their name." Huh. Why doesn't the church donate something to the family? You know, like a partial refund for all those offerings that didn't pay off with everlasting life. Oops! Val's cynical side leaked out there for a minute.

Now where was I headed? Oh, yeah. That piano causing me misery. Where that piano sits used to sit an end table. It wasn't near the end of anything. Just sat there between my rocking chair full of the boys' outgrown coats, and my cabinet full of Grandma's dishes. Every morning, I put my feet up on that table (one at a time, of course) to put on my socks. I could grab onto the cabinet if I became unbalanced. Now I have to put my feet on the piano bench. Same height, but different distance from the cabinet. Different balance if I grab the piano. Val hates change like Lou Grant hates spunk.

Friday morning, I was rushing to get ready, and a thread in my sock snagged on the edge of my right great toe. That's what you call it, officially, you know. The great toe. It's in all the anatomy texts. I rushed on, thinking it would rip itself loose. I didn't notice any pain. Val has quite a high pain threshold, according to those nurses when I had to be driven from one ER without beds to the hospital with beds when I had my gallbladder out. Because there were only two ambulances in the county, neither at my end, Hick drove me from one to the other. That meant I had the IV in my arm, but it wasn't hooked up to anything. Just plugged off for when I arrived after the 30-minute drive. Any other patient in such condition would have been crying for a refill on the machine filled with sweet, sweet morphine that you could push a dealybobby with your thumb every 15 minutes to get a hit. According to the nurses, who said it would take about 30 minutes to get the order for the sweet, sweet morphine pump.

Now what were we talking about? Oh, yeah. This morning my right great toe was sore. I saw that it was red at the inner corner, with a black spot in that crack between toenail and toe. "Oh. I must have ripped off a corner of my toenail with that thread. I don't want an infection. Better put some triple antibiotic ointment on there." I followed my instructions quite well. Then I got to thinking. "What if that's not dried blood, but a piece of the sock thread? I don't want that festering in my foot! I need to have somebody look at it." Because, you see, Val and her toes are not really on viewing terms lately.

I recruited Hick and The Pony as my personal caregivers. Hick knelt down and put his face near my foot on the end of the La-Z-Boy. He's a brave man. I could never get so close to anyone else's feet. Val hates feet like Lou Grant hates spunk. "Val. I can't see what's there. I need a magnifying glass."

"Oh! There's one in the kitchen, by that cup full of change. It's part of a glasses repair kit I brought home from my mom's. In a little clear plastic case, with screwdrivers."

Hick and The Pony went to the kitchen. A more inept search party was never formed. They could not find Hick's butt with a flashlight, a Garmin, and the help of hypothetical guest searcher Genius if their very lives depended on it. Of course I had to get up, hobble to the kitchen on my sore toe, and show them the magnifying glass sticking out of the cup full of change, resplendent in its clear plastic case, ensconced beside a red-plastic-handed mini screwdriver.

I told Hick to take a look and see if there were threads in my wound, or just dried blood. "I need to clean it out, Val. To see what's there."

"What do you need to clean out? That's CLEAR triple antibiotic ointment! You can see through it."

"Well, I want to get it cleaned up, but I know how you are when I try to help you." Let the record show that Hick has a knack for getting to the root of the pain. As in poking the place that will hurt the most. After retirement, he could get a job helping a dentist locate nerves. Like a hog that sniffs out truffles, like a witcher who shakes his stick at water. No need for a dentist to shoot cold air across teeth to find an exposed nerve.

Now where were we? Oh, yeah. "NO. I know how YOU are! You always find a way to make it hurt more. Unnecessarily."

"Let me get a Q-tip and clean it out."

"NO! I just took a shower, and then put triple antibiotic ointment on it! It's clean!"

"Just let me get a Q-tip. Pony! Go get me a Q-tip."

"Pony! Go out in the yard and get me a stick to bite on!"

"I'll get the Q-tip. But not the stick. It'll be okay, Mom."

I leaned back in the La-Z-Boy and threw my arm over my eyes. Hick pressed hard upon my great toe. I wanted to kick his head into the goat pen, after first bouncing it off The Little Barbershop of Horrors, then the Sword Shack. Let the record show that if a medical professional had done the same treatment, I would barely have felt it. But this was Hick. Also let the record show that both times I started to type "Q-tip" I first typed "toothpick." Because that's how it felt. Like he was jabbing a toothpick into my great toe.

"There! I got it! There was a black thread stuck in there. Now I'll put some triple antibiotic ointment on it and clean it up."

"NO! It's clean! I already put it on there. Look at it shine."

"Okay. But if you need my help, I'll fix it up for you."

I will say this about that for Hick. He's always game to play doctor.

Hear’s the Thing With Hick…

It may come as no surprise to you that Hick regularly gets promotional materials from hearing aid products and services in the mail each week. Let the record show that I did not submit his name as a prank. Let the record further show that perhaps I should have submitted Hick’s name in earnest.

I think Hick gets these advertisements because he has been to an otarologist concerning dizzy spells, one visit which was to perform the quack procedure of turning him upside down and vibrating him. He said it worked at the time, but now I guess he’s due for more inversion and pulsation. What I do know is that such a procedure had no effect on his hearing.

All the time I tell Hick he has selective hearing. Of course he disagrees. “I’m going deaf, Val. I really can’t hear you.” He says when I grow testy (heh, heh, I said testy) after repeating myself thrice. Other times, will go off on a tirade that befuddles me. When I call him on it, he spouts some insult that I allegedly doled out to him. Um. Which was nothing similar to whatever innocent question or comment came out of my mouth. He’s like a one-man game of telephone.

At our appointment the other day, I turned to ask Hick a question about the insurance card as I filled out papers. Let the record show that I was sitting right beside him, on my ripped-out corner chair, with a partition on my left and behind our heads. A partition that could be used to project sound forward for a high school choir at a holiday concert. Besides, my mouth was a foot from Hick’s ear. He loudly declared that I need to speak up. As if I wanted the entire office to hear our business.

At home, Hick turns up his TV to a level of 37. That’s preposterous. Every morning when I turn it on before my recliner nap, it blares a wake-up call to The Pony at the other end of the house. When I watch TV there, the level is 19. That is perfectly hearable, unless Hick gets sassy. Like Tuesday morning.

I was trying to watch On the Fly, an old show about airports and the indignities, real or imagined, that air travel passengers must endure. Hick stumped his way behind the La-Z-Boy, rustled around in Frig II’s freezer for a whole wheat blueberry waffle, popped it in the microwave, and commenced to winding his cuckoo clock that he got from my grandma. This is done by yanking some chains, the grinding of which emit decibels nearly as high as that blasted cuckoo.

Of course I was not having it. How was I going to know if the passenger would be allowed to fly if she didn’t buy two seats? She said she was pregnant, which did not keep her from hanging over onto the next passenger’s seat. But she and her boyfriend were adamant that they were being disrespected because of her condition. Anyhoo, I may have muttered, under my breath, of course, a little complaint such as, “Can you make any MORE noise?”

Well. Hick flew off the handle. “I HEARD THAT! I have to wind my clock, Val! And I have to cook my breakfast!”

Funny how he could pick up such low tones through all that background noise.

Hick Could Take a Baby Lesson From Johnny Castle

Sometimes I think Hick is killing me with kindness. Not that he's actually kind. He SAYS he's kind. But that's a loose interpretation, professed by the unimpartial Hick.

Earlier this week, we both took The Pony to an appointment. As with all unfamiliar buildings that we enter, Hick and The Pony hung back. Made me go first. Like Jerry doesn't wanna be a pirate, Val doesn't wanna be a leader. At least I didn't have to wear an embarrassing leader shirt because I nodded to a low-talker. Situations like this are the only time Hick holds a door open for me.

Does Hick ever demonstrate his kindness by dropping me off at a door before parking the car? No. As in this case, he said he was doing me a favor by parking on the end of the row so I could open my door all the way (which IS something I prefer). But when I opened my door all the way to step out, there was an upturned concrete tire-stopper laying alongside T-Hoe. I couldn't step down in front of it without putting my shin under the car. I couldn't step down behind it because my legs weren't long enough. I tried to step on it, but it rocked back and forth like an Olympic-caliber ankle-breaker. I finally held onto the handhold and the door, and lowered myself, like a male gymnast seeking the gold medal in the rings competition, with an iron cross.

Once inside, Hick deserted me. He disappeared behind a partition. After waiting in line to get paperwork so I could later stand in line again, I found that he had picked my seat. (Heh, heh. I said picked my seat!) It was IN THE CORNER right by the door to the inner sanctum. Everybody walking by had to step over my feet and those of the revolving person who chose to sit directly across from me and cough up questionable microbes in that air space, a scant four feet between us.

Oh, but that's not all. Not only does Val prefer not to be put in a corner across from hackers, but she also prefers to sit on a chair that does not have a rip down the middle as if somebody took a pocket knife to the Naugahyde in order to pinch Val's tender nether regions each time she shifted to get less uncomfortable.

Let the record show that there was another seat available, away from the center of the action, where Val could have been more unobstrusive and more comfortable. I broached this subject with the Hickster after we left. "But Mom! There was a lady sitting there already!" Huh. Like that should have anything to do with it! Hick could have asked her to move. He could have asked her if I could sit on her lap. He could have grabbed the back of that chair and dumped her out of it. He could have pretended that her name was called on the other side of the partition. He could have picked her up and carried her to the corner he reserved for me. Hick refuses to consider the possibilities.

I've a good mind to steal some wallets at the Sheldrake, and pin it on Hick.

Scared the Brown Right Offa Him, I Tells Ya!

Mother Nature went on a rampage last night. Mother Nature does not appreciate being ignored. I didn’t get to bed until 2:30 a.m., and by 3:00, the thunder and lightning woke me. Actually, it was the wind whipping the raindrops against the front wall of the house that woke me, finally a-snooze on the back side of the homestead. I guess that’s the sound that makes me worry. More so than run-of-the-mill lightning and thunder.

“We’ll just have to blow away. I’m too tired to get up and check for tornado warnings.”

My sweet baboo lent me an ear. “No tornado. My phone would have given me the alert. I didn’t hear it.” Let the record show that this is from the man who sleeps with a quilt over his head. A man who cannot hear my normally-spoken words when I sit right next to him in a waiting room.

“Did you check it for alerts?”

“No. I guess I could.” We wouldn’t want Hick to overexert himself taking five steps to the bathroom, where his phone charges overnight on the counter. “No. No tornadoes. Just thunderstorms.”

“I hope my rocking chair, my rocking chair that I used for rocking Baby Genius, the rocking chair you put on the front porch to make room for the piano…won’t be coming through the front window.”

“That rocking chair ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Still, I heard Hick stump his way to the front door to look out. I imagine his hair, if he had any, would have been forced back like that of the 1970s Maxell stereo guy in the chair.

This morning, we found many small branches that had been separated from their limbs. They littered the field and the gravel road. The creek wasn’t up. More wind than rain, I guess.

I suppose Even Steven knows Mother Nature. She must have wanted to apologize for her bad behavior, taking off those branches. On the way to work this morning, I saw a sight that gave me pause. Actually, it didn’t give me pause, because I was driving, and could not stop in the middle of the road for a picture.

“LOOK! AN ALBINO SQUIRREL!”

The Pony saw it, but had no time to snap it. At least he can verify my story. That pale critter scampered down a tree trunk and darted across the yard of an upper-class home in the lake subdivision.

Maybe Mother Nature likes rich folks better. Or they know where to buy albino squirrels.

Okay, Who Turned That Cute Little Morton Salt Girl Into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man?

When it rains, it pours. Unless you're Val. When it rains, it's a deluge. Bigger than a mere downpour. Almost out of control. Like...rain for 39 days and 39 nights. Rain on Val's parade, rain on Val's tin roof, rain on a new suede jacket with a pink-and-white striped lining.

Let the record show that Val has had a lot on her green metal camping plate (cost: $1) lately. And today her plate was full of rain! Overflowing with rain. Torrential rain. Yet not literal rain.

The week was going to be busy from the get-go. First full week back on the job, an appointment for The Pony, the closing on Mom's house, jury duty papers to turn in at work, Hick's bidding to do, AND A GARAGE FULL OF FURNITURE to find room for.

Yesterday at 4:30 I found out that the office gal had given me the wrong date for The Pony's appointment. IT WAS TODAY. So I hastily arranged to take the first of my 100 sick days last evening. Yeah. I could make it work.

The more you anticipate a day off, the more off your day will be. So sayeth Val Thevictorian.

I took The Pony to school. Turned in my paperwork. Got ready to leave.
I was delayed until my replacement showed up.
I went home to put away some inherited stuff.
Genius sent a text. He was in a texting mood. Far be it from Val to crush the needy needs of her child.
Sis sent a text. Needed me to call bank with info for escrow, so we can close on house tomorrow.
Called bank. Gave info.
Went to basement to wrap camera lens to ship to Genius.
Bank called for more info. Which was upstairs. Hiked up and gave info.
Hick sent a text. Cousin doesn't want house contents now.
Sent a text to Sis with Cousin info.
Sis called me with instructions to meet her and sign bank paperwork.
Got email from lawyer.
Got text from Hick regarding email from lawyer.
Left for post office (dead mouse one) at 11:30. Closed until 12:00. Waited. Mailed package.
Met Hick and picked up Pony for appointment.
Filled out paperwork and waited 90 minutes for appointment.
Sis sent text that she was called out of town, couldn't sign today.
Left appointment with 35 minutes to get to bank for signing.
Sis sent text, frantic that if I couldn't sign, closing would be delayed by another week.
Hick drove like a madman (madder man) to get me to the bank before 4:00.
On the highway at 3:44, got email that I need to send digital file of my contest winners for publication.
Arrived at bank at 3:51. Signed one form, gave copy of driver's license photo (!) to loan agent.
Text Sis to tell her I signed at 3:56. And that she gave me the wrong name of the loan agent.
Hick told me there's a black Chevy Suburban for sale by the donut shop. We need to look at it because we need a newer car.

Because, you know, there's not enough going on this week.