The Deck That Hick Built

Hick does not live by shacks alone. Hick's Shackytown is smoldering on the back burner now. He's almost done with the railroad car shack, except for painting. But that's not a gleam in his eye anymore. He's graduated to more expensive projects now that he's decided he's going to fully retire. I'm pretty sure that's his goal. Minimum money in, and maximum money out.

Because we (and by WE, I mean Hick, and last year a couple of times, The Pony) use Poolio for refreshing recreation so often during the two months that he's got warm enough and clean enough water...Hick decided that we HAD TO HAVE a new pool deck. Okay. So the old one WAS rotting through on a couple of boards. But since I never get on the deck, I don't see the urgency.

Anyhoo...one thing I'll admit about Hick: he's a pretty good amateur carpenter.

First, he had to tear out the old deck and start laying boards for the new one. Which he made bigger. And added steps down from the porch, instead of up from the yard.

That's a view taken from the back porch, off the laundry room and kitchen area.

As you can see, dark of night did not stop Hick's progress.

Hick's deck wasn't built in a day...but all of this part was. The rail and boards.

Then the floods came, and about the only thing that was accomplished for a week was getting enough rain pumped off of Poolio to remove his cover. Look away! He's hideous!

Hick finished this part in one day, too. The rest of the deck boards, and the steps.

In this photo, the sun was setting, and the rail was yet to come. Which is tomorrow's story!

Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #60 "A Weapon By Any Other Name"

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday. I have 150 words to convince you to fake-buy my fake book. This week, Val brings you the story of a young skateboarder-turned-entrepreneur with a secret weapon to market. Don't turn up your nose at this fake book! They're disappearing off the shelf. In fact, the shelf itself is disappearing! Get one before the inventory liquidates!

A Weapon By Any Other Name

Malodorous Funk set out to make a name for himself in the skateboarding world. His natural balance made him a shoe-in for a shoe endorsement. Until the manufacturers got wind of Malodorous's OTHER natural attribute: stinky feet. Using special polymers, they were able to design a shoe that did not hold the odor. Unfortunately, the trade-off was a miasma that surrounded Malodorous like Pigpen's dust cloud, everywhere but his shoes.. And dissolved everything in its path. The first to go was his skateboard.

Will Malodorous be charged with property destruction and indecent exposure? Or will the CIA approach him with an offer he can't refuse? (105 words)

__________________________________________________________________

Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

Pig-Pen..."Wow! I got another 15 minutes of fame! Thanks, Thevictorian!"

Piggy from Lord of the Flies..."I've never had a good history with athletes. They usually behave like savages. However, I think I'd like to invest in this young man's product. I can imagine several uses for it...not the least one being revenge. Thank you, Thevictorian, for fake-writing this fake book. You are a credit to society."

Wilbur..."Some fake book. I'm not real good with words. But if my friend Charlotte was here, I think she'd write a scathing...is that the word? For something very critical? A scath--scathing review of Thevictorian's fake book. I will NOT treasure the sweet memory of it forever."

Pigs, flying..."Yippee! We've been trying to get off the ground for years, and the day this fake book was fake published, we made it! Thanks, Thevictorian, for allowing us to fly."

Pig-in-a-Blanket..."This fake book chilled me to the bone! Fake-reading it was no treat, let me tell you! The fake author is so wrapped up in herself that she has no idea how to fake-write about others.

Piglet..."Oh, dear. The fake writing in this fake book is so terrible that it frightens me. I wish I had never found the courage to fake-read it. I shall do my best to have it banned from the Hundred Acre Wood, to save my friends from suffering like I did."

Kevin Bacon..."I really hope there are more than six degrees separating Thevictorian from me! The though of being related to this fake author does not make me dance with joy."

First 2 of The 3 Little Pigs..."Woe is we, that we didn't build our homes from the pages of Thevictorian's fake book! It would be quite safe from the huffing and puffing of a big bad wolf. Heck, this fake book is such an ironclad failure that it could withstand an F5 tornado!"

Pickled Pigs Feet..."This fake book, like ourselves, is sure to leave a bad taste in the mouth of the reader! And also, like us on a refrigerator shelf, people will get one look at it on the bookshelf, and turn away, repulsed."

The Little Piggy That Stayed Home..."My brother who went to market, and the one who had roast beef, and the one who's watching his diet...all think our last little brother went 'WEE WEE WEE' all the way home. When in reality, I was here, and saw the whole thing. He was already home, and was screaming in horror after reading the first page of this fake book."  

Piggy bank..."Alas, my stomach rumbles. Shall I ever feel full again? How I wish I belonged to a REAL writer...like Stephen King! And not this Thevictorian fake-writing woman. I might be the first piggy bank to succumb to malnourishment."

Pig in crap..."Hee hee! I'm SO happy that I have absolutely nothing to do with this project! Don't know the fake author, haven't fake-read the fake book! All I do every day is wallow in crap! And I'm HAPPY! As happy as...um...ME! In CRAP!"

Good Thing I'm Not a Fuller Brush Salesman

I know it's been almost a week since I told you about my weirdo encounters. I've been holding out on you!

Several days ago, I made my usual run to town for errands and a 44 oz Diet Coke. As with most days lately, my timing was not optimal. I passed some establishments because I'd planned out my route already, only to find that the good parking places were taken when I returned, or that the place was really busy now.

After several such missteps, I arrived at the gas station chicken store. Of course my favorite parking spot was taken. So I parked next to the moat that separates the lot from Hick's pharmacy, Ceilingreds. As I climbed out of T-Hoe, I saw that over by the free air hose, a car had pulled into the handicap space next to my old second-favorite parking spot.

I DID notice that the car had no handicap plates and no handicap placard hanging from the mirror. But since the gas station chicken store attracts the worst parkers in the greater Backroads area, that fact did not really surprise me.

A man got out of the driver's seat. He looked like that teenage kid on The Family Guy, only with black hair, and kind of gone-to-seed, with a 10 o'clock shadow. He was wearing dirty jeans with the bottom rolled up in 4-inch cuffs, and a black t-shirt with a rip in the back. How do you get a rip in the back of a t-shirt? Unless maybe you're trying to crawl under a barbed wire fence in the middle of the night after (alleged) criminal activity? Just sayin'...

Anyhoo...he was at the corner of the building, and I was walking across the lot. I didn't notice him limping or anything. He got to the door ahead of me. Usually, when you sense someone behind you, you push the door out as you enter. Give it a little extra oomph so it swings wide, or even hold your hand on the inside bar for a minute, as a courtesy to the person behind you.

NotFamily Guy pulled on the door handle and slipped through that crack like a ninja! I swear. It was like he was deliberately shutting me out, short of grabbing the inside handle and pulling the door closed behind him. What's up with that?

I reached for the door handle, a bit miffed, and saw inside the cranky tall clerk ready to come out, a cig already between her lips. Well. I did the right thing. I pulled open the door and stood back. "Go ahead, I've got it." Li'l Val's hero was not Gallant in Highlights magazine for nothing, you know. The clerk thanked me and came out the door, happy to be one second closer to her nicotine fix.

Seriously. Would it have hurt that guy to open the door like normal? Not even shove it open wide for my elephantine girth to plod through. Just a normal open and walk-in. No need to slither like a contestant in a sideways limbo contest. It's like he was afraid he might accidentally do me a favor.

What, exactly, is wrong with people these days?

Oh, yeah. And NotFamily Guy bought 14 one-dollar scratch-off tickets. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It just seems kind of random. As I left, I saw him sitting in his sedan in the handicap parking space, scratching his tickets.

Still not sure what his handicap was...

What Jack Needs is a Good Lawyer

Hick has been working around Poolio for a couple of weeks, building a new deck. I can't go into all the details now, because that's going to be a special addition that I'm planning for you while I'm livin' the wild life during Casinopalooza 2.

I don't plan on taking my laptop this trip, because during the original Casinopalooza, I barely had a chance to open it up, what with so many casinos, so little time. You'll have a fresh post every day, but I won't catch up with comments until Tuesday night. My last communication will probably be Sunday morning.

Anyhoo...as with any project Hick has going on, there are always a few loose ends. Sometimes they never get tightened. He had to move everything off the old deck in order to rebuild it. So he put stuff down by the basement door, under the porch.

Last night I went out to talk to him over the porch rail. He had drained some water from the top of Poolio after the first big flood-producing rain, and finally got the cover off. Now the water level is a foot or two below the edge. I saw movement in Poolio, and told Hick,

"You have a frog in there."

"Yeah. I've had several."

"Well, you need to get him out. He'll drown. He's not made to live in the water for his whole life."

"I don't have my dip net."

"You don't need it. He's over by the filter. You can reach him with your hand. Where's your dip net?"

"Jack tore it up."

"How did JACK get a dip net?"

"It was on the bench seat that I put by the basement door. He got up on there and got it, I guess. I found it in the front yard, all chewed up."

"It's pretty long."

"So's Jack."

Huh. Jack DOES get into things. And I guess he COULD have carried a dip net around the house. I saw him in the front yard one day with a limb about 8 feet long. He had no trouble romping around with that.

But this morning, I found THIS in the driveway.

I guess it's something Hick trimmed off when he was moving Poolio's filter closer to the new deck. I sent Hick a picture asking if it belonged to him, and he said,

"Looks like your dog got into things again."

Au contraire. I don't think Jack's mouth is big enough to grab that hose. He's got a tiny mouth. I even have to cut up the food for his evening snack.

And...it was the neighbor dog, Copper, who was discovered laying closest to the contraband. Yes, Copper DOES have a head. But in the way of the guilty dogs when they know you want a picture, he made sure we couldn't see his face.

Jack was not near it. Not near Copper, either. Just minding his own business over by the porch.

I guess we'll never know who took that hose. I threw it up on top of Hick's Olds Toronado. You know. The one he accused Jack of jumping up on and taking a crap on the trunk.

This Pea Wants to Escape From the Pod

Just in case you were wondering...Hick is driving me crazy.

HE'S ALWAYS HERE!!!

And by HERE, I mean wherever I am. At the moment I am.

You'd think I'd be safe for 21 minutes every night, walking up and down the driveway. Nobody needs to use the driveway in the evening. I'm here. Hick's here. And by HERE, I don't just mean at home.

Let the record show that the prime time for weedeating the area around the flat rock monument and the eyesore picket fence is...EXACTLY WHEN VAL GOES OUT TO WALK! Yes. It's true. That chore cannot be done any other time. How long does it take to weedeat the area at the end of the eyesore picket fence, near the flat rock monument and the trash dumpster? You guessed it...EXACTLY 21 MINUTES!

Yes, indeed. Val's life IS rife with coincidences like that. Doesn't matter that there are 6 acres here to mow which include the front yard and the BARn field on the other side of the sinkholey trees, and another 6 acres of cleared land past THAT, that could be accomplished while Val is taking a relaxing evening walk, hoping to fill her lungs with fresh air, not the stirred up particles and pollens of grasses to which her dripping nasal cavities and uncleared throat seem to think she is allergic to.

You'd think that with all that acreage to mow, it would not be imperative that the yard directly in front of the porch pew, the dog-snacking area every evening, would need immediate mowing at the very time Val is resting after her walk, enjoying the company of her canines. BUT IT DOES! Forget about relaxing and enjoying the peace and quiet of country living.

How boring would THAT be? When instead, you can admire the mowing skills of Hick.

Weeds can't be eaten every evening, you know, nor pew-frontage mowed. But do you know what else is imperative to accomplish during those same 21 minutes? HICK MUST MOVE GOODWILL SWAG FROM HIS TRAILBLAZER TO THE BARn! Right then! RIGHT WALKING THEN! You know how he moves it, right? He can't just carry it in his arms. No. He must go get the Gator. Drive the Gator over to the driveway. Park the Gator in the driveway area where Val makes her turnaround on the concrete carport. Load the Gator. AND BACK IT UP AT THE VERY INSTANT VAL IS MAKING ONE OF HER 6 TURNAROUNDS!

Uh huh. The Gator can't be backed up and turned around while Val is at the FAR end of the driveway. Only when she's walking right there.

It's a long driveway, people. And a large yard. Why do I feel so claustrophobic?

The Taming of the Two

Yesterday I gave you a slice of life from the crusty pie that was Val's childhood. Today, you get a take-out bag of assorted leftovers. And if I've told parts of this story before...well...leftovers last for more than one day, you know.

After our ladder-beatings and subsequent pedal-fire-engine rides down the broken-sidewalk hill, Sis and I could usually get along well enough to share the wagon. We had a Radio Flyer, I'm pretty sure, but it was secondhand, and had been painted country blue by either the previous owners, or our dad. It didn't steer as well as the fire engine. But there was no danger of getting your bare toes caught up in the pedal mechanism if you forgot to hold them off the pedals during the ride.

Also, the wagon didn't steer as well as the fire engine, so rather than try to ride it all the way across the culvert to Fanny Hugg's house, we turned it at the last minute into our neighbor Sally's yard. Of course it turned over. But we went flying out on grass, not over the side of a six-foot drop onto the flat rocks of a creek that may or may not have contained sewer runoff.

We also had a giant red tricycle and a smaller blue tricycle that joined the neighborhood convoy racing down the sidewalk. Sis and I shared the three neighbor boys equally as friends, but she had a closer gal pal in the next block, and I had Sally next door as my confidant. We all took turns on the various vehicles. No bikes were used on the sidewalk. Bikes were for riding in the STREETS, by cracky!

Anyhoo...Sis and I were not constantly beating each other down with miniature wooden ladders. But neither were we holding joint tea parties and discussing our innermost feelings. I'm pretty sure Sis has forgiven me now for that time I accidentally hit her elbow when she was digging in her ear with a bobby pin. Oh, come on! Nobody ever bled to death out of their ear, for cryin' out loud! In fact, I don't even think Sis cried. She was too busy screaming at the top of her lungs to tattle on me. Sheesh! So dramatic, some people.

Did I scream to tattle on Sis that time I was laid up after knee surgery, and she did not fulfill her sisterly duties? No. I did not. Because, like a tree falling in a deserted forest, there was nobody there to hear me make a sound.

Here's the deal. It was over Christmas semester break. We were both home from college. Old enough, you'd think, to put away our sibling rivalry. Dad was at work, and Mom had to go to the store. I was on crutches, with a six-inch incision down the side of my knee, back in the days before arthroscopic surgery was a thing. Yep. Five days in the hospital. Then a four-hour ride home.

In the two days I'd been back, I'd already managed to fall down the stairs once. A split-level home is not designed for convalescents of orthopedic surgery. The carpet broke my fall, and the flimsy wrought-iron railing kept me from toppling down onto the second set of stairs. I'm pretty sure Mom was able to clean my skin off the rough white surface of the wall. Anyhoo...she decreed that while she was gone, I was to STAY PUT in Dad's recliner. She propped a pillow under my knee, got me the TV remote, and said that Sis would get me whatever I needed. RIGHT, Sis? And Sis agreed.

That should have been my clue right there. For Sis to agree to be my servant. Willingly. I did not take advantage of her. Not at all. She stayed upstairs in her room. Probably all smug in the knowledge that I could not get to her up there. I swear. Mom was gone for the longest time. It was like she drove to Florida to harvest her own oranges to make the orange juice. I didn't bother Sis once. Until...I needed drink. I'm pretty sure I was still taking painkillers, even though my thoughtful mother had only filled half the prescription. Those things make you have cotton-mouth, you know. I really needed some water. Thinking about Mom down in Florida squeezing out orange juice did not make my thirst go away. So I called for Sis.

She came down the stairs right away. Bounding. Full of energy. Almost like she was flaunting the fact that she was able-bodied and spry, not on crutches. I told her that I hated to bother her, but that I needed a glass of water. Sure, Sis said, and bounded up that lower set of stairs into the kitchen. I heard her take a glass out of the cabinet. I heard her run the faucet. And here she came! With my water! Sweet, sweet water. Wet! Quenching! Water!

I thanked Sis and took the glass (a green--my favorite color--plastic Tupperware glass) from her hand. Sis ran back to the steps, and I swear she took them two-at-a-time, both flights, back up to her room. Ahh...water. Sweet, wet, quenching water! I lifted the glass and took a big gulp.

THE WATER WAS HOT!

Sis had gone to the trouble to run me a glass of hot water. I'm pretty sure she was thumbing her nose at me through the ceiling-floor.

But you know what? During The Original Casinopalooza in March this year...Sis brought me a drink! Yeah. So...sodas are free in the casino. You just have to walk to one of the drink stations and push the spigot. But Sis ASKED me if I wanted a soda, and then she WALKED ACROSS THE CASINO and brought me one. I admit that I took a tiny sip at first. But it was okay! She had made it just like I asked: Diet Pepsi [Oklahoma casinos really need to switch to COKE] with a splash of lemonade.

Wasn't that sweet?

To repay Sis during Casinopalooza 2...I'm going to let her pretend that Hick is her husband while they're sitting side-by-side playing the penny machines.

Hear That Siren? It's a Five-Alarm Gift!

Mark your calendar!

You have one, right? Surely you got a calendar for Christmas. With lighthouses or beaches or things you don't particularly have an affinity for (not you, Blog Buddy Linda, beach-lover extraordinaire) that was, perhaps, given to you by your sister the ex-mayor's wife's husband?

Mark it, I tell you, on the date of May 5, 2017! Because Hick bought a present for Val. Here! Let me waft these smelling salts under your nose. There. You seem to be coming around. If you don't get a knot on your head, you'd better go to the ER for a cat-scan, just in case you have bleeding inside your head. Here. Sit up. Do you have your wits about you again? Listen to this...

Hick bought me a present at Goodwill for $4.00. When he first sent me the text, he said it cost 400. So, remembering The Good Feet Store faux pas, I made sure to clarify the price. Take a gander at THIS:

It's a FIRE TRUCK, by cracky! Okay. It's a REPLICA. Of a TOY fire truck. But it's like the one I had as a kid. Almost.

As a kid, my sister (the little future ex-mayor's wife) and I had a pedal fire truck. I think ours was a bit more squared-off than this one, and I don't remember our windshield being like that. But it had two ladders on the back just like this one has one ladder (should have two, but the other is missing, and Hick says he's going to make one).

We used to ride our fire engine down the sidewalk in front of our house. Which was a 50-foot mobile home, parked on the lot beside our grandpa's house. Let the record show that we grew up in the 1960s, in a small town that still had ditches between the road and sidewalk that may or may not have been used for sewer purposes. Kids were hardier back in those days, I'm sure you all will attest.

Anyhoo...the hill started up past Grandpa's house, and ran down in front of ours, and our neighbor's house, and then crossed over a culvert that was about 6 feet deep where a creek ran under the road. The sidewalk had fallen into disrepair as it flattened out by the neighbors' yard. You know how concrete sidewalks do. The squares get kind of cattywompus to each other. Unlevel. They develop shallow craters that fill with gravel particles. The sidewalkular decay was even worse on the part that crossed over the creek. With NO rails or curb on the side.

Yes. Val's childhood street. A humid summer evening, Grandpa in blue Dickies, lug-soled black work shoes, and a white t-shirt, crouched with the green garden hose to water a tiny tulip tree sectioned off from the yard with a round metal mini-fence. Change in his pocket ready for for the first sounds of the bells of the Tastee Freeze truck. 

Picture Li'l Val and her sister (the little future ex-mayor's wife), bludgeoning the bejeebers out of each other with those wooden ladders to see who got to drive, then hanging them back on the fire engine, and barreling down that broken sidewalk, with Val's (in the driver's seat, of course) pixie-cut brunette hair blowing off her forehead, Li'l Sis standing on the back holding the ladder rails, her orangey-red, fine, shoulder-length tresses whipping themselves into a matted mess that would need the silver rat-tailed comb...flying across the culvert onto the better-maintained sidewalk section in front of the last house on the block, that belonging to the spinster Fanny Hugg.

Thanks, Hick, my Sweet Baboo, for buying me a memory.