At the Grad Party on the Farm

At the grad party on the farm there was a potato gun. It launched those spuds a football field and a half, and there were some kids who ran out there to see it they could catch them—unsuccessfully, since the gun was very hard to aim, and with ears of corn it was even worse. It was powered by compressed air.

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At the grad party on the farm there was a hammer-n-nail game. Toss the hammer into the air, twirling it once, catch it by the handle, and then drive the nail. Great fun for resident and the far more numerous wannabe farmers.

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Get your school bus ice cream at the grad party on the farm. Order at the driver’s window. Pickup at the rear. The farmer had bought it at auction, thinking it might do for group outings, but then discovered that there was more to putting an old bus on the road than he had anticipated.

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At the grad party on the farm you had to pass a farm quiz in order to eat, identifying various seed types and farm implements. This requirement was relaxed so that visitors would not starve. Acquiescing to reality, this farmer had previously given people stalks of wheat, labeling them “pre-donuts.”

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There was also a great swing that could accommodate up to three people at the grad party on the farm.

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At the grad party on the farm, there was, not one, but two, International Scout convertibles. With a V8 under the hood, it was a vehicle with guts, so said the grad’s brother who took it for a spin—more guts than that brothers own high Jeep, who he first got it, I said: “I’d better not see your tire tracks across my hood!” (or was that his buddy I said that to?)

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There was, at the grad party on the farm, a Burmese Mountain dog that threaded through the gathering crowd, its tail wagging all the while, as though a politician. “Careful—it’s a leaner,” someone said. “Pull back quick, and it will fall over.”

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Probably 150 made the party, and the grad is someone I have known since she was 2. She had strawberry red hair back then. There was to be a bonfire that night, but we left before that happened. It may have been rained out, since it was raining hard when we arrived home.

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"He Was a Good 'ol Boy, that Tom Harley, But He's Deeeaad Now!"

Leroy Whitehouse passed away the other night. I’ll miss that man. A tall, drawling, deep throated, 80-something-year-old black man from the deep south, I used to jest with him how I hoped he would one day give my funeral talk:


“Yeeeaass, he was a good ‘ol boy, that Tom Harley, but he’d deeeaad now! D_E_A_D!”


LeRoy would uninhibitedly offer comments to the 50/50 congregation about his younger days back home “working for the white man.” Or relate how even long term Bethelites are not perfect, illustrating it with a brother who declared “I don’t give a damn!” Taking the nervous titter in the audience for appreciation, he repackaged the line and ran it through two or three more times: “I don’t give a damn!”


I will miss him plenty. He was a friend.

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It's a Conspiracy!

There is a local brother given to conspiracy theories..

He's a fine brother. I like him, as does everyone else. He keeps it under control. He never mentions it from the platform. At least, not during prayer.

How can one resist not ribbing him? God will understand.

I got the ball rolling myself, then sent several brothers his way. "Make up a conspiracy theory about the Supermoon. Doesn't matter what. Mention in passing that you heard about it." How long till he knows he's been set up?

His grandson latched on with the most enthusiasm of anyone. "Yeah! Tell him it's altered gravity, changing the price of silver!"

I'm worried that the visit of our circuit overseer may distract some from their practical joke duties. It's hard to find good help today. I didn't include the C.O. in my plot. He's already charged with counseling the same brother about taking the trapezoid shaped parking space, making it unavailable for me to park there when I show up in my trapezoid car.

No names, please, should you comment. I'll take it down. And post something worse about you!

 

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Never Ever Trust a Brother that Drives a Bugatti Roadster

 

Don't trust them. They do nothing but make trouble.

'Here Tom, here's where you can buy wheels with snowtires mounted for your Fit! Isn't that a good idea? Just think how safe the missus will feel!'

Well, sure...anything for the missus...I bought them.

Who would think the stupid things require a non-standard socket to attach the lug nuts....not standard, not metric...something else entirely! I never knew there was such a thing.

And if you can get your head around that, what about the special 'hub adapters' required for each wheel?! Of course, they supply all those things, but I've yet to remember them when taking my car to the shop for seasonal tire change.

Who can put up with nonsense like this? It's my own fault...when the package arrived and said "Free Aggravation Included" I should have been tipped off. Image

It's not aggravation to Brother Bugatti. Such exasperating picayune stuff is the elixir of life to him! He thrives on it, like a hurricane gathering strength over warm water!

And this year changing the tires...someone had lost some (not all) of the hub adapters. Me? The tire shop? Brother Bugatti? Who knows?

Ah, well, if I must, I'll just buy more. Yeah...good luck on that! I don't remember where I ordered the things from. The likely source Brother Bugatti suggests is a no-go. "Don't you keep your paperwork?" he asks...he has paperwork for every car wash he's driven through since he was 16! No...not after two years...I don't.

Ah...wait. Here's the box from Gorilla Automotive. Yes...the wheel company does carry that brand. No, they won't sell them to me separate without proof that I bought them there...liability issues! Today I'll call Gorilla directly. I just hope the CEO isn't Harambe, who took a leave of absence three months ago and hasn't been heard from since.

I've never owned mounted snows in my life until Brother Bugatti came along. Nor even snows after seventies...All weather-tires work just fine. What was I thinking?

Mounted snows on all four tires are safer, says Brother Bugatti. Well, so are tank treads!

photo: Lothar Spurzem

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