FARMER JOHN RIDES AGAIN

I installed a new car battery tonight into a John Deere tractor.

Okay, I bought a new battery for my neighbor's tractor, so I could prepare the field for our 6th (7th?) Annual Youth Mud Football game. And then my neighbor's son, Tom, ended up doing most of the installation for me.

Then I attached this huge metal frame with curved prongs to the tractor for the plowing.

Well, Tom backed the tractor up... and connected it... and his mom ended up driving it around so I could inflate the... okay, so Tom could inflate the tires.

But then I drove it over to our field, and plowed until it was too dark to see.

And THAT part I did ALL BY MYSELF.

Tomorrow, the mud creation BEGINS!

(with the help of a well, six water hoses, a sprinkler, and a LOT of patience on my part as I move the water for the next seven days to create the muddiest, messiest field ever)

GERONIMO!!

Late one night I had a soda explode in my face.

Ungainly is a polite expression, but an honest description of me would include that in addition to gawky, clumsy... well, I tend to drop things.

Easily.

And frequently.

So it wasn't entirely unexpected that the can slipped easily from my grip.

But, like the true solider I am, I immediately threw myself on top of the grenade (sidebar: did you know the word 'grenade' is derived from the French word for 'pomegranate'? Does that make about as much sense as anything French does? Pomegranate?!) to absorb the detonation.

Well, actually, I picked up the foaming, spitting and hissing can, resulting in sticky, sweet fizzy soda flowing all over my hands, my arms, my legs AND getting into my hair.

I threw it into the kitchen sink, and then (and only then) thought (finally) of the concept of COVERING it with a towel to lessen the damage.

And then spent probably twenty wiping down the fridge, the counters, the cabinets, the dishwasher, the dog, the floor, the ceiling, the oranges in a nice decorative bowl, the nice decorative bowl, and my face. Everything I was wearing was consigned to the washing machine - a hot shower was essential to get my hair separated again...


But my skin was glowing for the next two days.

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GAMES VS SPORTS

I am in love with words.

I am a horrible speller, I have a total disregard for proper punctuation, and I have personally redefined about 15% of the English language to suit my writing/vocal needs.

But I am a compulsive reader - I simply canNOT pass a sign, a newspaper or anything with lettering on it without reading.

It helps that I am a fast reader. I have no idea why - in, fact I have no idea how I learned to read. Everyone denies teaching me, but I began kindergarten and totally stumped the poor teacher by already knowing the alphabet.

I must explain this is back in the dark ages (1961) when children did NOT go to pre-school, watch educational DVDs, and were expected to know both their ABCs and how to operate a computer.

Kindergarten was were children learned their ABCs and simple words. Also teachers could spank you without repercussions, kids flunked classes, and we all played sports.

Back to the main subject.

Which was... yeah, what was it?

Oh, yeah, games.

I don't really like games involving words. I hate Scrabble (I can never pay attention to the higher score placement), I detest crossword puzzles (come on, they come up with words like "kx" which in Kurdish for kangaroo droppings).

I love Big Boogle, but it's only because I am good at it.

And no one will play it with me anymore because I am so good at it.

Which brings me back to sports.

What is the difference between games and sports?

Games are.... well, games. Playing. Keeping track of the score, I guess, but mostly pitting your skills against another, and hopefully having fun while doing it.

Sports are, to quote a book I love, absolute and unreserved fierce concentration on where a particular ball is at that moment in time.

CONTROL IS ONLY AN ILLUSION

Hello, my name is Hope, and I am a control freak.

I have been control-free for 32 seconds.

When I was little, my mom was unable to let anyone do anything in her presence with taking over. She could not allow anyone to cook - clean - do the laundry - because they might do it wrong. She drove herself more than slightly crazy by holding down full-time employment and not accepting any help with anything.

So I have been working almost all my life on being control-free - laid-back - going with the flow.

Yesterday, it all came crashing down on me - there are some things that I cannot let go.

1. I cannot deal with poorly designed forms.

It's just like an painting historian looking at the original Mona Lisa with a crudely-drawn mustache scribbled on with a Magic Marker.

When the space bar is used instead of the hard tabs so it doesn't line up correctly when printed, it literally hurts my eyes.

When the font looks like my old manual Royal typewriter, I begin to grind my teeth.

Form creation is a serious art form to me, so this is sacrilege.


and 2. When someone is in a dangerous position around horses.

People can drive without their seat-belts, drink themselves into a stupor and wander out on the interstate, and walk with sharps knifes pointed right at their chest, and eh, it's their lire, it is their choice. Gets the stupid genes out of the pool.

BUT when an inexperience rider has her foot almost completely through the stirrup - when someone wanders just within reach of a horse's kicking range without even attempting to make the horse aware of their presence - when a rider is leading forward over the horse's neck going downhill....

I want to SCREAM.

Not because anyone might get hurt.

Just because it's STUPID and they should KNOW better.

Deep breath.

Yellow Pages.

Now... Twelve Step Programs for Control-Freaks....

SERENDIPITY

Did you know that the word "serendipity" was coined from phrase used in a fairy tale by an Horace Walpole, a British writer and politician (dangerous combination) in the 1700s?

There, don't you feel smarter, knowing that?

Yesterday was an example of serendipitousness.

My church's youth group has an annual Mud Football every summer out at my place. I tear up about a quarter acre of land, soak it for nine to ten days solid, and then allow 40-60 teenagers to spend a couple of hours having more physical contact between the sexes than is allowed in any other church activity we sponsor.

But, obviously, to rip up that much land, I need to rely on machinery rather than brute strength (with a shovel and my 54 year old back, I would need to begin as soon as the game is over to have it ready for neat year).

So I borrow my neighbor's tractor and furrowing attachment.

Here is where the serendipitousness begins.

Cherie is the perfect neighbor. And I mean PERFECT.

She knows just about everything about EVERY animal - she knows when I should call the vet, or just borrow something from her medicinal stash - she is someone I can call at 2 a.m. when I can't get hold of the border patrol or the county sheriff - her kids have taken care of MY animals for years when I am in California or Hawaii (really, people, where else do I go?).

And she has a tractor. A big and REAL John Deere tractor. Which I borrow every year. And sing the "Green Acres" theme song the entire time I am using it to plow the mud football field.

I do feel guilty every year when I call Cherie, after not talking to her over the past year any more than 12 minutes, and ask to borrow the tractor and the attachment. - but only for about 14 seconds (I have an extremely high guilt threshold).

But this year - it just happened that she was helping out a friend with a personal emergency, was going to be probably overnight, and wanted to make certain her kids had several contact numbers JIC (just in case).

And, therefore, I was one of those numbers she needed, just at that particular moment when I was calling to ask HER to borrow the tractor.

Guilt, be GONE!

THE BISBEE POLICE BEAT

I swear these are straight from our local newspaper:

1:49 a.m. - A man reported receiving a call from an unknown man who identified himself as James. James said he had been hired to shoot the man, that he knew where he worked, what vehicle he drove, and he claimed to have had sex with the man's girlfriend. The caller's phone number was blocked. The girlfriend did not know who it could be. The case is suspended pending further leads.

12:39 p.m. - A man was reported causing a disturbance by screaming at people at the bus stop near Circle K. Officers gave him a ride to Goar Park.

2:51 p.m. - A rattlesnake was reported at a residence on the first block of Manzanita Street. An officer responded and disposed of the snake.

* 7:29 p.m. - A nude man was reported in the parking lot of Bisbee Beverage. Officers responded, but the man had already left the area.

7:44 P.m. - A group of juveniles were throwing firecrackers at a resident's door on the 200 block of Van DykeStreet Last week they threw eggs at her door. She followed them to a residence in the 500 block of Ruppe Ave. The officer made contact with the juveniles there and advised them to stop.

* 8:01 p.m. - A homeless man was reported sleeping in the car wash at Plaza Liquor.


And I don't know why, but this last one just tickles me the most:

11:38 p.m. - A patrol officer observed an open garage door. It is unknown who owns the garage. The office secured the door.

Only in southern Arizona.

DON'T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU HEAR

I have been called gullible. I have been called naive. I have also been called stupid... but that's not part of this story (at least not yet).

But I assume that when people say something - or write it into a script - that they, at the very least, assume it is true.

Which is completely opposite my husband, who says, "I assume the person is lying to me, and take it from there."

So today I was SHOCKED. Completely SHOCKED.

"You've Got Mail," with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, is one of my favorite all time movies (defining 'favorite' as one of several hundred - think very broad here).

And you must understand, that with me, when I like something, I watch/read/experience whatever it is, again.

And again.

And again.

See, if I like it, I don't get bored by the repetition.

It also helps that I have almost no short-term memory. I never remember the end, so am surprised every time. (I'm not joking, folks)

However, I do memorize a lot of lines from all my 'favorite' movies.

One line from "You've Got Mail" which always puzzled me (defining 'puzzled' as actually dwelling on it for more than two nano-seconds) is one of Meg Ryan's which she is emailing out to "the cosmic universe" about a thought about a Joni Mitchell song, with the lyrics, "I wish I had a river I could skate away on."

And Meg Ryan/Kathleen Kennedy STATES in the script: "And the song isn't really about Christmas, but I was thinking about it tonight as I was decorating my tree and missing my mother so much that I couldn't breath."

Nice line.

But I am not enough of a Joni Mitchell fan to know all her songs, so I had no idea which song the she is referring to.

BUT...

Tonight on Sirius radio (one of the best things invented in the past fourteen centuries - I love music with NO/NONE/NADA commercials), I HEARD THE SONG!! That exact song!!

And the song IS about Christmas!!!

Listen!

Or read, I guess:

It's coming on Christmas,

They're cutting down trees,

They're putting up reindeer

And singing songs of joy and peace.

Oh I wish I had a river

I could skate away on.

How could the script editor / authenticity reader / HONESTY staffer NOT catch this?!?

I may never watch that movie again (sniff).