Redneck Review

Saturday, April 30, 2005

Hillbilly Homes

Contrary to what the media tells you, all rednecks do not live
in mobile homes. Some live in old school buses, some live in
camping trailers, and some live in basement homes.

I brought college friends and teacher friends home to see my
little town, and every one of them made a comment such as,
"I can't believe how people live around here." OK, now one
of them was from southern Kansas. She had no right to put
on airs about where she lived. She had mentioned that when
she was growing up, Kerr-McGee was a big employer in her
area. Ha! I've seen the movie Silkwood. You've been
sopping up radiation like cornbread in beans your whole
life, and now you want to get high and mighty with me, Missy?"
Just because you don't like the way people park two school
buses side by side and build a connecting room?

On my way to school every morning, I pass a trailer park.
Half of the trailers (oh, I forgot, they advertise them as mobile
homes) are actually camping trailers. They are very compact,
and would not be much fun to sit in all the time, even with the
satellite dish. Sometimes the people are outside lying on their
car hoods. Trans Ams and Firebirds, mostly. If not renting
space in a trailer park, many people build a basements and put
their trailers on top of them. Then they become immobile homes.
I believe these are advertised as prefabricated homes.

Then there are the basement homes. It goes like this: you buy
a piece of land and dig a basement. By then you are out of
money, so you live in the basement until you can afford to build
a house on top. Sometimes the house never gets built, so you
live in a big concrete rectangle with no windows and tarpaper
on top.

I can't decide who is hillbilliest, me or my husband. I lived in
a trailer until I was 12. He grew up in a regular house, in town,
but with no indoor plumbing. He had an outhouse, got his water
from someone else's house, and took a bath in a Number 7
washtub. I am not familiar with washtub etiquette. He says it
is the long washtub, not the round one. "I had two brothers, so
I would volunteer to take the first bath. That way I got the
clean
water." I think he wins.

Partners in crime (aka The Chipmunk Murderers)
Posted by Hello

Friday, April 29, 2005

When Chipmunks Attack

Chipmunks are cute little creatures. Sometimes they are called
ground squirrels, which are the same thing with different stripes.

Last year #1 son ran into the house hollering, "Mom, Snuggles
is stalking something out by the trees!" I went out to look.
Our long-haired mostly-white calico cat was after a chipmunk.
He was sitting up on his back legs chattering at her.

"Save him, Mom."
"I don't know if I can. When he runs, Snuggles will go after him."
"Just try, Mom."

I walked closer. The chipmunk turned to look at me. He
chattered louder, like he was scolding me, but didn't run. I
reached down and picked him up. He sat very still in my hands.

By then, #2 son and Genius, our short-haired yellow-striped
cat, had joined us. The chipmunk cocked his head to one side,
and looked at me the way the creature looked at Sigourney
Weaver in Aliens. He tilted his head and stared at me with
his beady left eye, like, "What would you do if...................."
HE BIT ME!!!

He jammed his long, curved, left canine tooth (can rodents
have canine teeth?) into my left index finger. Deep into the
fingertip. You know, where all the nerve endings are located.
My first instinct was to fling him as far as I could into the field
aka our 4-acre front yard. But nooooo! I still wanted to
rescue him. My kids would find out soon enough that it's a
cat-eat-chipmunk world out there.

I put the chipmunk on a tree limb about as high as my head.
At that moment, Genius scampered up the tree and whacked
Mr. Chipmunk with a right hook. He tumbled to the ground,
where the waiting Snuggles sank her teeth into him.

Duh! Ground squirrel. Lives on the ground. Oh, and in case
you forgot, too: cats can climb trees. What was I thinking?

The murder didn't traumatize my kids as much as the blood
dripping from my finger. The next day, I asked the school
nurse if chipmunks carried rabies. She called the County
Health Center. They didn't know, but said I needed to come
in for a tetanus shot.

The moral of this story? Don't interfere with Mother Nature
in a game of cat-and-chipmunk.

Who wouldn't try to save this cute little critter?
Posted by Hello

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Watch Your Mouth

As teachers, my friends and I sometimes assume the students
know more that they actually do. Take vocabulary, for instance.
We assume they have been exposed to the same words we have.
This is not the case, since our vocabulary is determined to a
large extent by how much we read, and words we have seen.
Some of our students had never been more than 10 miles from
home. And they didn't exactly have home libraries.

At one time I coached 7th grade girls' basketball. We had
practices with the 8th grade team, coached by my friend, who
for legal purposes will be known as "Betty Jones." Betty would
tease the kids into giving extra effort. She had a great sense of
humor, and the girls responded well. When one did something
dumb, like tried to make a lay-up and bounced the ball off the
bottom of the rim onto her head, Betty would say, "You silly
twit, pay attention to what you're doing!" They took this well,
and got along with her just fine.

One day Betty was called into the office to meet with the
athletic director and the superintendent. Seems one of the
players, who just happened to be a school board member's
daughter, got into an argument with her little brother at the
supper table. He told on her for getting in trouble on the
bus, and she said, "Shut up, you stupid twat!" Her parents
told her not to use that kind of language. She said, "Well
that's what Miss Jones calls us all the time."

Another example: one of our male friends taught 5th grade.
Let's call him "Bob Smith." He tried to break his class in right
from the first day. "Now, I am easy to get along with if you
do what you're supposed to do. You may think I'm nice right
now, but let me warn you, if you don't do your homework, Mr.
Smith will be a holy horror."

One of his boys went home and asked his dad if men could
be whores. "Why do you ask?" "Well, in class today Mr.
Smith told us if we didn't do our work he would become
a whore."

One of the high school teachers used to walk by the detention
students as they were lined up for bathroom break and say,
"Malcontents." A student of mine wanted to fight him. I asked
why. "Because he called us a bunch of 'milk tits.' What does
that mean, that we're babies?"

So.....teachers, watch what you say, or you may have some
explaining to do.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Redneck Crime

I have only lived in the middle of nowhere for 7 years. Before
that I had a house in town. A $17,900 house. But that's
another story.

We lived on a corner 2 blocks from Main Street in a little
redneck town of about 4500 people. There was quite a
bit of traffic by our house, so I guess people could see what
treasures we had out in the open. The treasures of someone
who owns a $17,900 house, mind you.

We were sleeping soundly in our waterbed one night, (the
preferred bed of rednecks), until we heard someone pounding
on the front door. My husband got up to see who it was,
and found a city police officer.

"Sir, do you have a riding lawnmower?"
"Uh...yes."
"Do you know where it is right now?"
"Parked around back under the kitchen window."
"Will you go see if it's there now?"

Well, of course it wasn't there. Why else would the police
come a-knockin' at 2:30 a.m.?

It seems that some people on the street across the river
had heard something and looked out to find 3 young men
pushing a riding lawnmower up the road. They called the
police, because you know, even though we are rednecks,
we just can't put up with lawnmower-pushing at 2:30 a.m.
We have to have some semblance of civilization, or it will
be anarchy!

The police made the guys pull over the lawnmower, and
asked where they were going to mow a lawn at that hour.
Where did they live? Which one did the lawnmower belong
to? These hardened criminals finally cracked, and admitted
that they took the lawnmower from our house.

Oh, but that's not the strange part. To get this riding lawnmower
across the river (which is named Flat River Creek--don't get
me started, is it a river, or is it a creek?) they didn't just push it.
They carried it over a swinging bridge! That's right, 3 guys
picked up a riding lawnmower and carried it across a swinging
bridge instead of pushing it an extra 4 blocks to the regular
bridge.

So my husband had to take the truck to rescue the lawnmower.
He said, "I don't know why they didn't just drive it. The key
was in it." But hey, it was 2:30 a.m. The guys got locked up.
One was a former student of mine, but he didn't know it was
my house he was stealing from. He couldn't make bail, so he
sat in the county jail awaiting trial.

My husband had to go to court 3 times. The trial kept getting
put off because they ran out of time on law day. He missed
3 days of work. At that time he was an hourly worker with
a lot of overtime. It cost him $150.00 a day in missed wages.
Finally, he dropped the charges. "The kid has sat in jail for
6 months already. I'm not missing more work for this. The
lawnmower wasn't even worth what I've lost in wages."

Did we learn our lesson about storing our valuables in plain
sight? Of course not. A few months later someone took our
push mower. Is there a moral to this story? Not really.
But is seems like lawnmowers are redneck gold.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005


What a bargain... The $300 car.
Posted by Hello

Monday, April 25, 2005

The $300 Car

A couple of my posts have already mentioned our vehicles.
We have quite a collection. As I write this, we have 4 cars
and 2 trucks. For 2 people. Yeah, we have a problem.
Now I didn't say they were all in working order.

One of the trucks has the bed located about 150 feet from
the cab. It is our '67 Chevy collector truck that is being fixed
up for car shows. It has been in the process of being fixed up
for going on 7 years now.

The other non-running car is the topic of this post. The $300
car. Oh, the asking price wasn't $300. We got quite a bargain.

My husband spotted it on the way home from work, a dark
blue 2-door 1996 Toyota Tercel, parked beside a trailer on
a rural blacktop road. It had $400 written on the windshield.
He came home and said, "It has to be a good car. They've
been driving it every day. Now they have a truck, and this
one is for sale." He is always checking out people's yards to
see what items of their junk he can make his treasure.

So I scrounged around and came up with $400 and turned
him loose. As he told me later, the minute he pulled into
their driveway, a teenage kid came out of the trailer and said,
"You can have it for $300. We got a truck and need to get
rid of this car." That should have been his first clue that this
was not really a bargain: 25% off the asking price before he
even made an offer.

Next thing I knew, he was back home to get the gas can.
This should have been his second clue: the car would not
run for the 3-mile drive home--downhill. About 15 minutes
later he came in pulling this bargain behind his truck. Third
clue: it wouldn't run even after he put gas in it.

He took the kid that sold him the Toyota back home, and
came to the house to get #1 son, 9 years old at the time.
He was excited to go see Dad's new car.

A few minutes later,the boy ran to the house, yelling,
"Mom! Dad caught the new car on fire, with ME in it!"

Here came Dad behind him to do damage control. "I told
him to sit in the car and push the gas while I shot ether into
the engine. It blazed up a little bit, but I put it out."

Since when has it been OK to set a car on fire with a
9-year-old in it? Must be a redneck thing.

He coaxed the boy back to the car by promising him a ride if
they got it started. They did, and proudly pulled up in front of
the house. Oh, did you know that the front of the house was
the yard? He said he was going to drive it around the yard,
so if it stopped running they'd be close to home. The boy was
struggling to put on a seatbelt. For a ride around the yard in
a $300 car.

The thing was smoking so bad I could hardly breathe. They
did a couple laps and came back to the front porch. The boy
got out. He had flecks of yellow-gold stuff all over his back.

"What's that all over you?" I had to ask.

"Oh, that's part of the seat. It looks like someone locked a
cat up in this car and it tore up the seats trying to get out."

As I write this, the $300 car is parked by the barn with 2 flat
tires. It has been upgraded to seats from a Porche. You
guessed it. Someone at work was going to throw them away,
so Hubby took them. Oh, and we still have the cat-scratch
seats under the lean-to. You never know when you might
need some junky seats from a 1996 Toyota.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Hillbilly Garbage Disposal

What do city people do with their garbage? I would imagine
they grind it down the garbage disposal, or scrape it off the
plate into the trash.

What do we do with it here in Redneckland? Throw it
outside, of course.

As I was growing up, we lived in town. OK, not a very
big town, and true, we didn't have sewers there, just ditches
running along the road. But, hey, that was a paved road.
Oh yeah, and I lived in a trailer. But still, it was a civilized
area with neighbors in houses.

Getting back to the garbage issue....After supper (which
is what we call it around here-- not dinner), my mom would
scrape all the garbage into a pan and take it out to the ditch
in the back yard and dump it out. The neighbor's cats would
come a-runnin'. There were 4 of them, John, Ringo, George,
and Paulie. I think the neighbors were Beatles fans.

When I was in Junior High, we built a house outside the
city limits. Mom still dumped the garbage outside, by a
little creek this time. There were no cats, but plenty of
dogs to enjoy this bounty.

So when I moved into my own house in the country, of course
I threw my garbage outside. It is really kind of fun. The kids
sail slices of stale bread off the back deck like Frisbees. They
fight over who gets to throw the eggs or watermelon, things
that explode. This tossing of garbage into the great outdoors
seems normal to me.

When I was teaching at a school several counties away, my
friend had three of us over for dinner. The meal was pretty
good for something she cooked herself. It was after dinner
that the horror began. I was keeping her company in the
kitchen while she cleaned up. She was quite a talker, and in
the middle of a story she said, "Follow me." She picked up
the pan of leftover corn and walked down the hall. Of course
I followed. I don't know which suspense was greater, the
story or the curiosity to find out where she was going with
that corn. She marched into the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid,
and flushed that corn!

Now that's just not right!

Saturday, April 23, 2005

They'll do it every time!

Have your kids ever embarrassed you? Of course they have.
That's their mission in life.

When my first son was around 2 years old, I had to take him
on a trip to the license office. This is no fun for an adult, so
imagine this little kid having to stand in line at a counter that is
higher than his head, nothing interesting in sight.

I was trying to get a license for a trailer, but didn't have a title
because the owner was deceased. Of course this took quite
a while, and my boy was growing more restless by the minute.
He did a few laps around my legs, pulled on my arm whining
"Let's goooooo!" and kicked at the counter for awhile.

Then he developed an interest in the man at the line next to
us. The guy was wearing jeans and white high-tops, and
a wife-beater white undershirt. Typical attire for the license
office in Redneckland.

Problem Child pulled away from me and sidled over to
this guy and looked up at him. Then he lifted his left leg and
STOMPED on the guy's white high-topped foot. I reached
over and yanked him back into my line, telling the guy,
"Sorry!"

"It's OK." He went back to talking to the worker.

This was when state and federal offices were pushing voter
registration. The guy finished his transaction, and the worker
asked, "Are you registered to vote, sir?"

"I can't register to vote, Ma'am. I'm a convicted felon."

And the moral to this story is.....leave the kids with Grandma
when you go to the license office.

Friday, April 22, 2005

The Lay-Out

I teach at a secondary school in rural Missouri, about 5 miles
from the town where I grew up. So you would think I would
be well-versed in all the local lingo. Think again.

Around this time in April, several years ago, I overheard my
8th graders talking about the "lay-out." Hmm...were they
going to work on their tans? It was mainly the girls that were
carrying on about it. Well, I have to do such-and-such before
the lay-out. Oh, I have to go home and change to get ready
for the lay-out. Hey, you can come home with me until it's
time for the lay-out. No, I can't do that, but I'll see you at
the lay-out. My mom's picking me up, and then we're going
to the lay-out.

I couldn't stand it anymore, so I asked, "What do you guys
mean, lay-out?"

"You know, the lay-out. At the funeral home."

Ahaaa...a former student had died in a car accident, and they
were talking about the visitation. I guess that's what other
people call it. Or maybe the viewing.

Which reminds me of another time, when 3 of my teaching
buddies and I took a trip to South St. Louis. While we were
visiting with our friend's parents, her mother discussed a
recent trip down south to Redneckland for a funeral.

Mama was wound up about the hillbilly customs down in
Washington County. She could not believe the behavior
and attire of the mourners. Here she was, pacing around
in her South St. Louis finest: polyester pantsuit, beehive
helmet hair, and blue eyeshadow. She gestured dramatically,
waving around handfuls of rings, while we sat raptly on the
couch, a captive audience. Then she stopped, leaned over,
and whispered "...and the corpse's husband was wearing
a windbreaker and tennis shoes!"

At least she didn't say she had attended the lay-out.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Playin' Possum

OK, city people, do you know what a possum looks like?
You're not missing much. It is like a giant rat, but with
bug-eyes, and uglier. The actual name for it is "opossum,"
but nobody ever calls it that. We have a lot of them down
here in Redneckland. Their natural habitat is dead along the
side of the road, but every now and then you can spot a live
one. We had one that used to come up onto the porch at
night to eat dogfood.

Here's a little possum humor for you.
"Why did the chicken cross the road?"
"To show the possum that it could be done."

One morning as we were leaving for school, we saw one
by the garage. It was stretched out on its side like a dog lying
in the sun. Funny thing, though, was the layer of frost on
its fur. It looked like it was sleeping. An hour earlier my
husband's truck had been parked right where it was lying.
You know, the 4WD Ford F250 Extended Cab Long Bed
that is too big to fit in the garage. The possum didn't look
flat, and it didn't look dead. But it sure wasn't moving.

I told #1 son to go poke it with his toe to see if it would
move, but he politely declined. Actually, I think his exact
words were: "No way! You go do it!" Well, since I didn't
want to be late, I said I would check it when we got home.

Both boys craned their necks to see it as we went up the
driveway. And they did the same thing on the way back
in the afternoon. The day had warmed up, and Mr. O. Possum
was in the same position as we left him. #2 son said, "Maybe
he's just tired and taking a nap." Nine hours is one long nap.
I said, "Hey, maybe he's just "playing possum!" Heh, heh,
I crack myself up sometimes. The kids didn't find this nearly
as humorous as I did. In fact, they didn't crack a smile.

I got out and poked it with my toe, and of course it didn't
move. The dog must have scared him to death. There were
no marks on him at all.

When my husband got home, I told him he needed to get
rid of it. He came back about 5 minutes later, and said
"He's gone." I should have let well enough alone, but no, I
had to ask where it was. "Did you sling him over the fence
into the neighbor's field?" That's what I would have done.
Make a note never to move into my neighborhood.

"No. I put him in the sinkhole." OK, people, we have well
water. Do you know what a sinkhole is? It is like a giant
bathtub drain down into the water table. That the well taps
into. That gives us our water. That we drink.

Make another note: If you do move into my neighborhood,
don't drink the water. And repeat after me: "A sinkhole is not
nature's dumpster."

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

The Swimming Pool Truck

We had a minor crisis a couple years ago when the kids and I
couldn't get the car out of the garage to go to school. It's kind
of a long story, but hey, welcome to my life.

It all started with the fish pond. Not a real fish pond. This was
a redneck fish pond. We bought it at Sam's Club, the Wal-mart
for city people. It was gray plastic molded to look like rocks,
with a little pump to make a waterfall. The whole thing was
about 4 feet long and 3 feet wide. The plan was to put goldfish
in it, and let them grow like those big Japanese goldfish that you
see in real fish ponds. We started with two goldfish that my then
7-year-old son won at the school carnival.

The fish pond was installed beside our back deck, and my
husband fed the fish morning and evening. He bought more
goldfish at Wal-mart and dumped them in. Things were going
fine until we started having problems with the pump. I think
it might have had something to do with the green slime that
now covered the surface of the fish pond, but my husband
said no, it was a malfunction with the pump. He was going
to take it out and look at it when he had time.

So the kids and I rushed out to the garage as we did every
morning, and the garage door wouldn't go up. I thought
maybe there had been a power problem and the breaker
was tripped, so I looked in the fuse box and saw that we
didn't have breakers in the garage, but old-fashioned screw-
in fuses. And this one was missing. To protect his precious
fish pond pump, my husband had stowed that fuse who-
knows-where, and had already left for work. This was
before we had a cell phone. No way to find out where
it was. I couldn't lift the door with that manual chain thing
because the SUV was so big it was parked under that
chain and I couldn't reach it.

We did some brainstorming on how to get to work on time.
My oldest son thought we should call Grandma to come
give us a ride. No good. That was a 30-minute drive
to get us and a 30-minute ride back to town.

Then I thought of the old truck. I ran in to get the key,
and herded the boys toward the barn. About halfway
there, parked in some trees, was the old truck. A 1988
metallic blue Chevy Silverado club cab long bed with
several rust holes and, are you ready for this, an old
abandoned swimming pool filling up the bed and most
of the cab. One redneck's trash is another redneck's
treasure. Someone at work was throwing away this old
pool, and my husband said he wanted it. It was not a
modern pool, but an old one with a vinyl liner and a metal
frame and a bunch of hoses and a pump or filter or some
such heavy metal part.

I put the littlest boy in the back seat under some plastic stuff.
No room for his child safety seat, but he had a seat belt.
He couldn't see a thing except what was under the plastic.
That was fine with him--he found an old striped canvas train
conductor's hat from a trip to Silver Dollar City, and put it
on and babbled about Thomas the Tank Engine.

The other kid had to ride beside me. And by that I mean
like a conjoined twin connected to my hip. He had filter
hoses winding around his head, but seemed game for the
adventure. This was quite a trip. At any moment, I knew
those big flapping wrap-around pieces in the bed were
going to blow out. I could hardly turn the wheel for all
the hoses. And that big metal thing kept rolling from one
side of the floor to the other.

We pulled up in front of the daycare, and the lady peeped
out the door in horror. Once I dragged the little one out,
she opened up and let us in. By now we were about 20
minutes behind.

I took off for the elementary, where I had to get out to
let the other kid disentangle from the hose maze. He
thought it was an exciting trip. I just thought it was an
embarrassment. Not that I'm so high and mighty that
I can't drive an old truck to school. It's just that I would
rather not have taken my hand-me-down pool with me.

Inside of the Redneck Kids' Clubhouse
Posted by Hello

Tuesday, April 19, 2005


Clubhouse from above.
Posted by Hello

Entrance to the Redneck Kid's Clubhouse
Posted by Hello

Redneck Kids' Clubhouse

My son went to a birthday party a couple weeks ago, and the
kids started putting sticks and leaves on top of some big rocks
to make a clubhouse. When he came home, he asked his dad
to bring him some big rocks up from the creek to make a club-
house. Of course that would be too much work, so his dad
told him he knew just the place. I didn't think any more about
it, and both boys and their dad went out to play.

They came back in about an hour later, all excited. "Dad
found us this great place for our clubhouse! Come look!"
So I went outside, about 50 yards from our front porch,
and saw the "clubhouse." It was one of our sinkholes.

Oh, we have two sinkholes, a large one and a small one.
This was the small one, but still a sinkhole. Now I'm not
sure if you know what a sinkhole is, but in this area it is
where the underground water has eroded away the rock
and left an opening between the surface of the earth and
the underground water table. In other words, it is like a
cave with the top eroded away. Sometimes there is water
in the bottom, sometimes not. In our big sinkhole, you can
drop a rock and eventually hear it splash. It is about 50
yards past the small sinkhole.

I, of course, had a few words to say about this new clubhouse.
Number one being that it isn't safe to play in a sinkhole. My
husband said I was overreacting: "It has a dirt floor." Yeah,
for now. How do we know it is finished collapsing? Maybe
that is just the roof that fell in and got stuck, and it's going to
collapse again.

The kids were happy as could be. They have a cool clubhouse.
They had covered the top with sticks. So it kind of looks like
some primitive trap that unsuspecting animals fall into and land on
pointy sticks. I do not like this idea of using a sinkhole for a
clubhouse.

"What am I going to do when one of them falls through to the
water and gets washed along in that underground river? I can't
save him, and by the time I call for help he'll be miles away."

My husband still thinks I'm overreacting. My mother says to
dress them in life jackets and tie a rope on them before they
go out to play. Now that's a good idea.

Monday, April 18, 2005

Redneck Revenge

If you live on a rural route, you know what a pain it can be
when people dump out junk they can't be bothered to dispose
of properly.

We have had an entire burned truck abandoned at the entrance
to our property, a dump-truck load of tree trimmings right across
the road so you couldn't drive in, an old refrigerator, and countless
puppies and kittens. More about the live stuff another time.

One Sunday morning I was headed to town to do the grocery
shopping, and saw a Wal-mart bag full of something on the gravel
road to our property association. We have 10 families that have
mailboxes on this end of the property. We try to keep it cleaned
up and looking nice. So I stopped the car and got out to pick up
the trash. Now it was already 80 degrees, and this bag had half a
20 oz. Mtn. Dew that was still cold. So somebody was in such
a hurry that they couldn't haul their trash home, they had to dump
it on our road. I looked through it, and found a cardboard-and-
plastic wrapper from a kid's toy package, an empty pack of
cigarettes, some losing scratch-off lottery tickets, an empty chip
bag, a little-chocolate-donut wrapper, AND a junk mail ad for
some kind of off-brand cigarettes WITH A NAME AND
ADDRESS.

I threw the junk in the car, and after shopping, I smuggled it
into the house and down to my office. I didn't tell anybody about
this until now, because it really is kind of psycho.

I found an old Amazon.com box and printed a new address
label, along with a short note that we DO have a sign down by
the road that says we prosecute trespassers, so do not dump
anything else on our private property. Then I took the soda
and poured it out so I didn't have to pay to ship old soda,
and I packed all the junk in the box with the note on top and
sealed it up. I propped it under my desk until the next day when
I could get to the post office. Yes, I really did mail it. It was
two-dollars-and-change well spent.

Yes, it felt very wrong, but oh, so right. Because this address
was a couple towns away on a rural route. That meant the
mailman wouldn't just leave it on a porch--with a mailbox
out on the road, he would leave an orange card to pick
up the package at the post office. So this lucky litterer would
have to go to town and pick it up. Hmmm....did he work,
and have to make arrangements for someone else to get it? Did
he wait until he was out running errands with the family? Did he
send a wife/girlfriend to get it? If only I could have seen the face
of the person who opened up his own trash. What karma!

Sunday, April 17, 2005

About This Blog

What's this blog all about? It's about the midwestern experience.
What makes us hillbillies tick? You won't know till you've been
here in central Missouri. People and attitudes are different.

Years ago, when I first heard comedian Jeff Foxworthy talk
about "You might be a redneck if...." , I thought "Yeah, so..?"
The things he talked about were definitely part of my lifestyle.
For example, "If you put your working TV on top of your non-
working TV, you just might be a redneck." Been there, done
that. Well, my dad did, anyway. For about 6 months. And what
about using margarine tubs for Tupperware? I still do.

When my 10-year-old son can help me, I would like to post a
picture on this site of what is in my front yard. It kind of defines
my hillbilly lifestyle. OK, so the suspense doesn't kill you--it's a
5th-wheel camper. Now, I don't know why we can't park it by
the barn, or in the field on the other side of the house. I guess my
husband wants to admire it out the front window of the living
room. He has some funny ideas, which I will be glad to share
with you in coming weeks.

Here is Hubby's latest dream: he wants a 1986 Mercedes to
drive to work. With the price of gas soaring, he has decided that
the Ford F250 4WD Extended Cab Long Bed with the off-road
package that he just had to have 2 years ago is not exactly
economical for his daily 60-mile-round-trip commute. We found
this buttercup yellow Mercedes 300SE on a used-car lot, and he
started talking about how 2 or 3 guys at work have a Mercedes
deisel and how they are saving money. Now for the odd hillbilly
twist--they use an alternative fuel. (No, it's not moonshine.) The
secret is cooking oil. The guys go around to Chinese restaurants
and ask for their used peanut oil. Hubby says french fry oil will
work too, but you have to strain it. I said I will consider letting
him buy the car, but if I catch him sitting around outside Chinese
restaurants, it's gone!

You know the 5th wheel camper I told you about?
This is it right in front of our house.
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