SPRING WORK: Day 3 - Rated R for bad Language and Crude Humor

I was not going to put this little story on my blog simply because it was inappropriate, but after sharing it with the whole of the local grocery store this morning I figured, what the hell. You all are brave if you have been following me anyway.
Sunday was Day 3 of Spring Work, and I was happy because today Brett was driving tractor, and not me. His turn to suck! The Boss took him out just after 8:00 A.M. to give him his first lesson. For those of you who don't know, Brett is 15 and up to this point he has only plowed for us, which apparently, although I have never done it, is not as technical as harrowing. I waited until just after 10 o'clock to text the Boss and get a read on the competition.
How's he doing?
He's a natural.
Figures.
Such a natural in fact that the Boss is going to leave him out there to get that much needed spraying done. I spend the remainder of the day doing what farm wives do when they are not on a tractor: cleaning house. Now, I have always liked to clean my house. In fact I have severe OCD about it. I am so anal about it that the joke around here is that you better hold on to your coffee cup if you want more because if you set it down I will have picked it up and put it in the dishwasher. I like a clean house, and I liked that I had all day to clean it.
Well, all day that is between moving equipment, cleaning rabbit cages, making lunches, answering texts, paying bills, doing the endless laundry, teaching the other son to mow the lawn, playing with those new cute piggies, and constantly reprimanding my daughter for letting her bunny sit the counter. Remember the Sheep? Rabbit is starting to look mighty tasty about now.
Anyway, I digress. The funny part of the day is when I get a text from Brett that he is broke down. Bad.
The bar thingy snapped in half and a green thing is missing. And, I'm in the back of the field. Way in the back.
Hmmm...let's see...nope, I don't have those is the tool drawer. In fact I don't even know what they are, but he says it's bad, so I have to go with that.
Does it need welded? I ask.
Yeah Mom, he texts back. It's bad.
Crap! I advise him not to tell the Boss yet. He just started spraying and I don't want him to have to stop if it isn't necessary. I grab my daughter, more so that she would keep her bunny off of my furniture than anything else, and I head out to the field.
When I get there I see that he is not lying; not only is he in the back, but he is way in the back, high on a hill and behind a ditch that we cannot cross in the pick-up. No way. No how. So, he decides to walk down to meet me. We wait, and when he gets down to us, he retells the story.
I say, "Well, lets not just stand around here, let's go have a look."
At which point I get a groan from the daughter. She is not at all interested in walking back through the field. She's too tired. Which to me means: she needs to get out and walk through the field. So, we do and boy howdy is it a hike. The tractor is alike a mirage on a highway and I swear that it is getting further and further away with every step.
Finally we make it up there and I look at the two broken parts. He's right, it's a bar. But it's more like an iron finger that holds two bars together. In addition, there is a green thing missing that holds the bar on, but it doesn't need welded. The finger and the green thing are attached by screws and the screws are missing.
"Hell," I say. And this is where this blog get's the R-rating for language and crude humor. "I can fix that on my own. I don't need a penis to fix that."
When I say that, I am referring solely to a funny story another farm wife told me about her daughter backing the trailer up. I have blogged about this before, but it is so funny it is always worth bringing up again. My friend's daughter wanted to wait for Dad in order to back the trailer up for her, and her mom, the farm wife, said to her, "You don't need a penis to back up a trailer. Have you ever seen your dad whip out his penis to back up a trailer?"
Since then, I have used that as my own motto whenever I talk to my children about what we can and cannot do on our own. It's wrong. It's crude. But funny? Yeah!
"Did you check the toolbox for parts?" I ask.
"What toolbox?" he says.
"The one on the front of the tractor. It has bolts and junk."
"Nope," he said. "Didn't know there was one."
We pop up there and dig around until we locate a bolt, a washer, and a nut. Then we find the tools and I proudly walk over and replace the green thing. I rock! Hell yeah, I rock. I've heard hired hands call the Boss for less.
"There," I say, wiping the dirt directly on my butt for good measure. I earned that dirt. It's going home with me.
"What about the finger?" he says, pointing to the other broken part. "You still might need a penis for that."
"The hell I do," I say. "Get over there to that tool box and find the part."
By this time the Boss has gotten word over the radio that we are broke down and that it is his wife, his son and his young daughter out in the field trying to fix it, so he is on his way. I'm fairly sure that Brett is over at that tool box texting the Boss like mad, advising him that I am making the penis comments again and that he better get out here STAT before something gets broke even worse.
"Well," I say as Brett comes back. "What did ya' find."
"Nothing Mom," he said. "I told you we needed to call the Boss."
"No we don't," I say, pushing past him.
By this time, the Boss is already hiking up the hill, so I'm rummaging even faster. I can do this without him. I know I can. But, I can't. There are no fingers in there. I turn around to face the Boss, dejected at the fact that he had to rescue the damsel in distress - and I'm talking about Brett here. Just kidding.
"What's the problem?"
"That finger," I say. "Don't you have a spare here? If you did I could have fixed it without you."
"Did you see all the chain in the toolbox?" he asks.
He's being super nice, but I know he hated shutting off that sprayer.
"Yeah," I say, following him like an eager puppy back to the tool box.
"Well," he said. "All you do is wrap this chain around it and bolt it tight. It's a farmer fix, but it will get you through the day."
"Oh," I say, watching him simply put it around the bar.
"See, Mom," Brett says, grinning at me. "Guess you needed a penis after all."

Did You Get the Tequila?

            It all started at 5:30 in the morning with the alarm clock going off. Where I live, you might have expected me to say that the rooster was crowing; but no, instead it was the incessant jabber of a talk show host ranting about something to do with the price of rice in China. Really, at this time, I could have cared less. All that I could hear was the fact that she had obviously had her coffee, probably Starbucks and most likely made by a barista that I would never see in my kitchen.

            Five thirty was also when the guys from the fertilizer company drove up the driveway and my husband popped out of bed like a jack-in-the-box. Therefore, I guess that I was up too, barista that I must be.

            I climbed over the six-year-old who had crawled in at some odd hour of the night, threw on my sweats and headed for the kitchen. By the time my husband had his clothes on, I had already started a pot of coffee, unloaded the dishwasher, located a piece of paper and started my list for the day. Number one, make four lunches, move the tractor, make the tea, chicken for dinner, bread, start the burn pile, trim the raspberries, rodotill the garden, move the other tractor, piano lessons at 3:00, and pee. I always put that in there as my own little joke to myself, because I know full well that this list will be a page long by the time the morning is over and I will need a break. I also know that I won’t get half of it accomplished.

            I was just on my way to the shower, knowing that it was that or a cup of coffee, when my husband said something about needing a ride to the field.

            “No problem,” I smile. “When?”

            My husband looked out the window. Here, I must digress. If any of you have read my blogs on Spring Work, you must know by now that a farmer looking out the window causes warning bells to ring in his wife’s head. Frankly, it means, “I don’t know. I’m not sure. What do you think dear?”

            However, with Spring Work being so super late this year and farmers all over the Palouse in danger of not getting their crops in on time, my farmer quickly recovered.

            “Now?” he asks.             

            “Sure,” I say. “Let me write a note to the kids.”

            Already I am doing the math in my head. It’s almost 5:45. My son, who is the early riser, will be up to shower at 6:00. Another at 6:15. If the first one isn’t out of the stall on time, there could be a fight. Oh well, I can’t worry about that now. The others won’t see the light until after 7:00, so if we get after it, I can make it back in time to start breakfast and head off any brewing fights. The drive out and back would take a half hour.

            Now, in favor of this blog not being as long a read for you as it was a day for me, let me just speed this up for you – because frankly that is how I experienced it.

            So, on the way out, I’m informed that we need to stop by the fertilizer plant, it’s only five miles out of the way. It’ll only be a second. Just have to tell someone something. Fifteen minutes later, now almost time for the second child to rise and find the note that I am MIA, we just start heading for the field.

            “Think you have time to move a truck,” he asks.

            “What truck?” I say.

            Yep, I’m gritting my teeth. He’s been in the house for the morning routine all blooming winter. He knows full well that four hungry boys can get chaotic without the mommy buffer.

            “It’s at the other field.”

            Now, dear reader, the “other” field in question is almost ten miles the other direction, and moving a truck isn’t like helping your friend move his car down the road. You have to wait a generation for it to warm up, for the farmer to pee, and then it rumbles, slowly, ever so slowly, through the field and onto the road like a very, very old man. And then, as I know all too well, there is always a chance that we may have to stop by the fertilizer plant again. 

            “Where is it going?”

            “To my dad’s.”

            Another seven miles the other way.

            “No way,” I say. “Kids need to get up.”

            “Well, that truck needs to be in the field in an hour,” he states, as if I’m delaying the work that must get done.

            “Fine,” I say. “I’ll go home, get the kids up, ask the eldest can take care of the youngest and I’ll get it done.”

            I race out to the field, practically kicking him out the door and then race back home, hoping like hell that I don’t see a cop and that I’m awake enough to drive because this barista has yet to see a cup of joe! If you think this is tedious, wait till you hear about the tequila!

            When I arrive home the fertilizer team is still there and they are unable to get a much needed nozzle working. I radio the farmer who gives me instructions in some form of farmer-speak over a jumble of other voices on the radio. I race back and forth playing the telephone game between the two of them until finally the damn nozzle magically works. Great, good. One success.

            I race in the house, now hollering for the kids to get up. I give my eldest instructions, thankful that he is willing to help and not in a bad mood. I call the father-in-law to help me move the darn truck, ask the middle child to make the youngest a lunch, and am just about to run out the door when one of the kids reminds me he needs to go to school early. Let me tell you, I flunked math, so by this time, my numbers are starting to get a little jumbled on who needs what by when.

            “Okay,” I smile. “Get your stuff.”

            Stuff attained, out the door, to the school, out to the field to meet the father-in-law, texting the eldest to inform him that I just passed the bus on our dirt road heading straight for the house. I pick up the father-in-law to help get the slow lumbering truck, get a text back from the eldest that one of the younger children has hidden his backpack and that he will “FAIL” school if I don’t find it and bring it to the school RIGHT NOW. I want to tell him that I’m not a fan of capital texting, but I’m driving so I keep it brief. OK.

            About here, I’m wishing for my list to write all this down. I move the truck, all the while have a civil political discourse with my father-in-law, race back to the house, make four lunches, find the backpack which my eldest simply left by the dryer when he got his clothes out, discover a wayward suitcase that had been left her by another kid who had stayed the night a couple of days before, a coat from yet another visiting boy, and some books I need to deliver to the school. You getting all that?

            I am just in the car when my dear husband texts that he needs his tractor moved. He’s waiting. Like time waits for no man, farmers do not wait for busy wives. Around here, excuses can get unpaid helpers such as myself fired. Right now I’m thinking that sounds damn good!  

            “No problem,” I state. “No problem at all.”

            I deliver everything, realizing that I still have not had a cup of coffee, but being a woman, I have to pee anyway. That will have to wait!

            I deliver the goods to the school, only to find my youngest upset because he forgot his lunch. I console him and magically produce the lunchbox that I found left on the counter at the house. Then I race to the field, flag the tractor, only to get a call from the hired man. He’s ready too.

            Done! I get back home, turn OFF the radio, walk straight past the list and into the office to try and edit my book for the upcoming writer’s conference. I got an hour in on my project before I got another text from the farmer.

            In favor of getting you through this, I will give you the final straw. Wish I could say it was stuffed in a blended margarita, but it wasn’t. No.

            After taking the middle child to piano in a neighboring town, helping the youngest with his homework, washing and folding laundry, and just pulling the chicken out to start dinner, I get the call from my two eldest boys that they need picked up from track. Fine, I say. We can eat leftovers tonight.

            I get back in the car, start to drive to the school and I literally have to stop at the only stop sign in town and contemplate who in the heck I am headed for; the hired man, my husband, or the kids. I laugh and sit there for minute. I’m taking a break, I laugh. Right here in the middle of town. I had almost regained my bearings again when my cell phone vibrates. I pick it up and read the text.

            “Hey,” my husband types. “It’s Cinco de Mayo. Did you remember to get the tequila?”

            Needless to say, that man did not get an answer this time.

            Now, for all of you waiting patiently – and of course on pins and needles for me to write “Why Am I a Liberal Part 2,” I will just point out that I haven’t had much time of late. However, I will get on it…after I pee. 

Trailer Tippin in The Varmint Liesure World

            Sadly, our family and friends have a secret. I’m not sure if our neighbors have started to notice yet, but something happens here at our house on Friday nights. Cars can been seen driving in after the sun has set and most normal, rational people have gone to bed. Only a few people know about it, and even less have actually had the courage, dare I say the guts, to participate. Those few know who they are, they know why they come, and I’m certain that they would not like me letting their little secret out of the bag.

            And, I wouldn’t, if it hadn’t started effecting our daily lives, they way we see the world, the new philosophy with which we rear our children. We are not necessarily proud if it mind you. And I don’t recommend it for the faint of heart. All it takes is making the mistake of being our friends, or showing up here at the wrong time of night. You might be mistaken in what you see. It may look like a friendly little get together, but as you will understand when you walk in the door -which from some reason now has to be hooked back on its hinges - there are some sick and twisted paraphernalia sprawled out on our kitchen table. There are people in straw hats, and some with no teeth. Suddenly, you begin to understand that this is anything but a normal friendly little party. This is war! A Trailer Park War!

            We warn you now, just like we warned our friends and family. You may come as yourself, but when you leave something will have forever changed in both you and your children. You long to be someone different, not only in our house, but even in yours.

            That night, you dream of being a Swashbuckling Cowboy, or a Bad Ass Biker Couple. You want to try just one night as Starla, the Chain Smoking Stripper, and you suddenly realize that you are, and possibly always have been, The Redneck Family with 6 Kids.

            The next morning, you don your best work clothes, only to realize that for some reason, when you were putting on your makeup, you absent-mindedly blacked out your front tooth with your mascara. You laugh a little and blame it on the Beer Beer you drank at the Warwick’s, now nicknamed in your mind, The Dump View Chicken Neck Korral.

            As you drive to work, you suddenly see that you have brought something with you. No, not your kids new pet Opossum that you unexpectedly have this odd craving to grill up for dinner that night, but you’ve brought your camera too. You try to deny it at first, and pretend that life is back to normal. You have your coffee, just like you have every other morning, and you turn on the radio only to find out that you now listen to country. And not just any country, but the old stuff with twang.

            You smack your lips and pick up the toothpick you used to harvest the roasted ‘coon from you teeth last night. You start pickin’ again and find a leftover. At this point you are a little shocked, but sadly, alone in your car, you are not ashamed. You start chewing on the meat, no longer counting calories. Instead you are trying to decipher what part of the animal that was. You remember Wave, The Bar B Que King, grilling up the gizzards of the 'coon, that his son kept referring to as cute little Ben. Wave roasted the feet too. You didn’t want to try one. You said no politely at first, but there was just something about that smell, and the fact that everyone else was already in line with their paper plates that called to you. What if there wasn’t enough to go around? You got in line too, and you feared what it meant.

            But, this morning, you know the truth. You know who you are now, and you know why you brought the camera.

            You sit up a little straighter in your seat, and put a fist out the window to signal to the Long Haul Trucker who just passed you by to give you a honk. He does, and you are now certain that you just passed Wheeler Turnin. He’s single, middle aged, and you know full well that you would hook him up with Burnice, The Hot Flasher if you only had a hitch up card. “She’s so hot…she can grill a cheese sandwich just by holding it in her bosom.” You like Burnice, but you remember that you like Anita Break, The Single Mom with Kids, just as well. She’s only one age group away from Wheeler, so she’s fair game for a hitchin’ too!

            And then you see it. You know now that you will be a little late for work, but who cares. You can only imagine what your friends at Dairy Aire’ Flamingo Estates will say when you bring that little token of camaraderie to the war next Friday night. They’ll say, “It’s time to go Trailer Parkin’!” If you had a Thief in the Night card, you’d do it too! You’d “steal that trailer and add it” to your own park. But then you realize that you've hit the mother load! For a moment you can’t even believe it, so you take in the rest of the surroundings.

            This is not just any trailer, or trailer park you are looking at on your normal way to work. This trailer stands on matching cinder blocks and has only been painted two colors. It looks like a place for Uncle Clem, the Local Tycoon, or Jerry Attrick, the Frugal Millionaire. And why? You know why. They not only have pink plastic flamingos lining their walkway, with they have garden gnomes too! You don’t mean to, but you have to do it. You hop out, and take a long stride. You picture yourself like The Pizza Delivery Gal, Tipper or Dye. “She’s faster than a jackrabbit on Red Bull,” or Robin U. Blind, The Kleptomaniac. He’s single, young and male, and “Robin is so bad…he’d steal a widow woman’s lap dog.”           
            So, you do it, not because you want to, but because you have to. For the sake of your friends, for the sake of your honor…not that you have any anymore. You walk up to the edge of the sidewalk, keenly aware of the multitude of landmines along the driveway. You instantly comprehend that this could be the trailer of the Pit Bull Puppy Farmer, Pervis Scruggs. “He turned 21 in prison, but he’s out on parole.” You get as close as you can, and then bam! You snap a picture of the lighted flamingos that adorn the front of the trailer. That’s it!

            You did it! You got it! Initiation complete! You are forever one of them now! Sadly, you understand what you have become, that there is no going back. You know who you are …and possibly who you’ve always been. You are trailer trash and you now have your own picture of just exactly what you did on the way to work the next morning to prove it! You will be the envy of all next Friday night, and the target for everyone as well!

            You drive off with your prize, wishing you had had the courage to knock on the door and ask just where they found such magnificent creatures as those lighted neon pink flamingos. Oh well, you think. Baby steps!
           You have all week until the next game night at the Warwick's; a whole week to think of new amenities to go with it; a mud bath for the kids, Friday night Jell-O fights for the ladies, bathtubs full of plastic flowers that you hope will entice the residents from other parks to come and live at yours! Thankfully, you have all week to think of a name for it as well!