Tag: Humor

Gossip and Gravy Biscuits

~ sanebishop ~ Leave a comment

There is a saying in the country, “Put on clean underwear in case you’re in a car wreck.” The idea behind this saying is that it might be embarrassing if first responders caught you wearing dirty drawers. 

I suppose the other idea implicit in this saying is that first responders are, well, are prone to gossip and might spread that tidbit of information throughout the countryside, which may be why Congress passed the HIPAA privacy law. First responders are now legally bound not to divulge information about your dirty underpants, unless you consent for them to do so–so be careful what forms you sign. 

Some first responders circumvent this law by also being farmers. It is a gray area to be sure, but it has generally been understood in this country that farmers are allowed to gossip with impunity, especially if the gossip takes place at a gas station grill in the morning, while all the farmers are strategizing and coordinating their daily movements and activities. Thus, if I ever need to know what is going on in the county, I always call one of my neighbors, Jimmy, who happens to be a first responder, farmer, and daily patron of Beam’s Country Corner, the best place for a breakfast biscuit in the whole county. Beam’s also carries 100% non-ethanol gas, so you don’t have to worry about clogging up a carburetor, though clogging an artery might still be a concern, especially if you’re fond of gravy biscuits. 

 You will always hear Jimmy, before you see him–he usually sits in the rickety booth at the back of Beam’s Country Corner, the booth closest to the coffee pot. Some farmers at Beam’s refer to Jimmy endearingly as the Mouth of the South (a throwback to Jimmy Hart, who coined the moniker as Hulk Hogan’s ring manager), but I consider that an insult since Jimmy is an important source of information beyond just a local and regional reach.

I’ve never met a man who knows as many people (their families and family histories and family secrets) or as many politicians (their benefactors and supporters and political secrets) or as many cattle (their sires and pedigrees and possibly their secrets, though cows tend to hold their cards pretty close to the vest). He knows everybody, two-legged and four-legged in the county. 

In my opinion, every community needs someone like Jimmy. For one, with phonebooks now a thing of the past, if you need a cell phone number for someone, you just call Jimmy and he will give it to you. He will also give you a treatise on that person’s life, so if you’re in a hurry, it’s better to text him. Second, if you need to know if your cows are on the loose and roaming the roadside, you can call Jimmy and he’ll confirm whether it’s your cows, plus he will give you the latest information on their movements and whereabouts. 

In short, Jimmy is an invaluable resource. Hopefully, you know someone like Jimmy, but even if you don’t, you can rest assured he knows you.

A Fair in Foul Weather

~ sanebishop ~ 10 Comments

It has been a year since Helene. The storm came up from the gulf and stalled over western North Carolina. It rained and the wind blew, harder than any of us expected. In our county, it was mostly a generational windstorm that snapped trees and downed power lines, but further west it was a biblical rainstorm, washing away life and mountainsides. We were without power for seven days, which is not a long time unless you’re a modern American without power, at which point it feels like seven years. 

One place in the county that did not lose power, or at least regained it quickly, was the Cleveland County Fair, which was ongoing at the time. While the countryside looked apocalyptic, people somehow navigated obstructed roadways and went to the fair, lots and lots of people. Having lived here now for nearly fifteen years, I believe going to the fair in late September is an innate migratory instinct for longtime residents of the county. 

The Cleveland County Fair is the largest county fair in North Carolina. It has been since its inception in 1924. I won’t bore you with the details of its illustrious history, but it is not a rinky dink carnival in a parking lot. It is a proper agricultural fair, with livestock shows and blue-ribbon pumpkins, with vinegar fries and funnel cakes and roasted corn and endless avenues of transportable and purportedly safe thrill rides–and pig races, my favorite part. It is, in short, just the place you want to be when the world around you is falling down, literally or figuratively. 

Last year, we didn’t know quite how badly the world had fallen down, or washed down the mountain. With the power out and roads impassable, reports of the cataclysmic damage further west were slow to reach us, so people did what they had been doing for generations and went to the fair, almost as an act of defiance against Mother Nature. Also, since the power was out everywhere else in the county, there was nothing better to do.

In a matter of days, our fairgrounds as well as other fairgrounds across western North Carolina would transform into staging grounds for volunteers and supplies, as the reality of the devastation came to light. There was something better to do, and the outpouring of community support that descended on our region was truly remarkable. For many, the recovery is still ongoing; for others, what was lost will never truly be recovered. 

A year later, the Cleveland County Fair is back again for its 101st year. I am happy to report that residents are once again flocking to the fairgrounds on their annual migration. No matter how foul the weather is, over us or the nation or the world itself, it’s comforting to have a fair. Here’s hoping you have a fair in your neck of the woods.

Thomas’s first trip to fair in 2022.

The Family that Pays Together

~ sanebishop ~ 10 Comments

One of the certainties that I am now firmly entrenched in middle age is my ever increasing familiarity with our healthcare system. Granted, system is a generous word for what I have encountered so far. I doubt a madman could have created a more convoluted and confusing system of offices and facilities, referrals and specialists, deductibles and co-insurance, cryptic codes and mysterious charges. If our system doesn’t heal us, it will likely drive us to madness–so in that regard, despite all the major advancements in medical technology, we might as well be downing swigs of mercury like folks did in the olden days.

If there is any design to our system, or any designing principle to our system, it seems to be to extract the most money possible from patients who are in too much pain to object to the absurdity of what they’re about to be billed. Take, for instance, my most recent foray into the dizzying land of healthcare–kidney stones. An x-ray taken at the hospital, when I was in the throes of abdominal discomfort which I ranked as a red-angry face on the smiley-face chart at the emergency room (I couldn’t get a timely appointment at my primary care physician), cost me $597. An x-ray taken at the same hospital, on the same x-ray machine, of the same kidneys, but this time ordered six weeks later by a urologist as a precursor to an office visit, was $111. Why one set of x-ray costs roughly $400 dollars more is beyond my capability to understand.  

I suppose I can’t complain too much because this year I had the foresight to select the “high option” insurance plan. The “high option” means that I pay a little more per month and, if we meet our deductible, the insurance company pays a higher rate of co-insurance. 

In the past, we have never met our deductible, so I suppose it’s been a good deal for the insurance company. Not this year. Not to be outdone by dear old dad, Thomas fractured his arm last week on the playground at kindergarten. We haven’t got all the bills yet for this accident, in part because the earliest appointment available at our local orthopedic clinic was a full week after the accident actually happened, which meant Thomas had to dangle his limp fractured arm in a sling for a week before he finally got his blue protective cast. 

The good news, I suppose, is I also had the foresight to opt into the supplemental “accident plan” offered by my employer (I’m a sucker for insurance I don’t understand). As best I can tell now, the accident plan–and I suppose all insurance–is just a form of gambling, except there is really no winning, but merely a limiting of loss. I pay $20 a month extra for the accident plan. On the roulette wheel of accidents you can choose from, arm fractures provide a $1000 payout, which is even better than lacerations and dislocations. Rest assured, the $1000 will be going straight back to healthcare providers–and be counted toward our health insurance deductible. 

All this is to say, I’m pretty sure we’re going to meet our deductible this year for the first time as a family, an achievement we could do without. All the people–the doctors, the nurses, the radiologists–have been great, at least once you can actually get an appointment to see them. Half the battle seems to be getting in to see the right people when you need them. Unfortunately, despite all the wonderful advancements in medical technology, the system itself seems like an overloaded, convoluted, inefficient, and expensive mess. Surely, there has got to be a better system, one that doesn’t require people to gamble with their health.

Helpful Farm Definitions

~ sanebishop ~ 1 Comment

The other day, I happened to be riffling through the dictionary for a word when I randomly flipped to the page that contained the entry for tractor. I couldn’t help but stop and refresh my memory. According to Merriam-Webster, a tractor is a powerful motor vehicle with large rear wheels used chiefly on farms for hauling equipment and trailers.  

What a terrible definition! It’s almost as if lexicographers, trained in etymology and semantics, have little real-world knowledge of the defining qualities and singular characteristics of the mighty tractor. As an English major, who happens to own two tractors (or be owned by two tractors–I’m not sure which), I feel uniquely qualified to offer a slightly more accurate definition. A tractor is a sedentary piece of machinery with large flat rear tires used chiefly on farms to play roulette by guessing which hydraulic hose will burst next.

This farmer just hit the jackpot.

This pairs well with my definition of a farm: a farm is a rural open air casino where people can gamble wholesomely on the propagation of crops, but where Mother Nature and the Banker always win in the end. From this bedrock definition of a farm, you can then derive many other farm terms:

A farmer is a person missing a finger who is addicted to gambling on the propagation of crops. 

A farm hand is a young in-law who primarily performs grunt work and dangerous tasks and whose fingers and hands are still intact but generally considered disposable. 

A farm dog is the dog that runs off with the finger after the severance. 

A regenerative farm is dedicated to the regeneration of soil and missing fingers through adherence to  ancient and wise agrarian texts. 

A goat is an animal that trained at Houdini’s School for Escape and Get Away. 

A pig is animal certified in farmer psychoanalysis and talk therapy. 

A cow is an animal with four stomachs, but with such poor sense that it fills them all with grass. 

A chicken is the smartest animal in the barnyard kingdom, due primarily to its ability to scam farmers into building elaborate coops and enclosures in exchange for a few fresh eggs.

A fox is a wild animal that has evolved to infiltrate elaborate coops and enclosures and ruin the asset-to-income ratio for the production of a few fresh eggs. 

A farmers’ market is where a happily married man goes to sell produce and a few fresh eggs, only to have a fight off a bunch of presumptuous women who keep asking him about his spraying habits. Apparently, the sight of homegrown tomatoes is an aphrodisiac. 

An old farmhouse is a multigenerational domicile whose primary function is to provide shelter for annoying ancestral ghosts, all of whom are extremely opinionated about the never-ending home improvement projects of the living inhabitants. 

Hopefully, these definitions give you a clearer picture into the true nature of life on a farm, or at least my life on a farm, which, I admit, may not be indicative of others’ experiences, especially for farmers more competent than I am. Oddly, despite the generally harrowing nature of the above definitions, I would define farm life as a generally pleasant and rewarding way to spend one’s days on Earth.

Happy Is The Man Who Remembers

~ sanebishop ~ 4 Comments

Thomas started kindergarten this week–kindergarten! Seems like just yesterday that we were dropping him off at daycare for the first time. Okay, maybe not yesterday, but it doesn’t feel like five years. Time is strange: days drag, years fly–unless you’re a new Kindergartener with no concept of time. For Thomas, a long time ago could be an hour, month, or year. He remembers a few things from two and three. For instance, he remembers his first tornado warning, in his three-year-old class, when he and his classmates had to huddle in the daycare bathroom.

I only have a handful of vague daycare memories. I remember once having my mouth washed out with soap for spitting. I remember once having a nightmare while laying on my mat during nap time. And I remember getting my “willy” caught in my zipper. That’s it. With predominant memories like that, it’s no wonder I can’t remember anything else, which is a shame because I’m sure daycare was mostly a fun and happy experience, full of blocks and trucks and dinosaurs, much like it has been for Thomas. Why I don’t remember the fun and happy part is beyond me. It is concerning, however. 

Apparently, behind my back, my brain has been conspiring against me and erasing my happy memories without my consent. This is a treacherous thing for a brain to do, which is why you should keep your friends close, but your brain closer. Admittedly, I haven’t been checking in with my brain much, so without my support it decided to make mischief. I’m not sure I can blame it. It probably gets bored sitting up there, wobbling around all day, and doesn’t have much else to do. Or, maybe my brain is just a fan of ‘90s teen dramas, which is why it retains so many cringeworthy memories from high school–I’d rather have my infantile memories from daycare. 

By the time Thomas is my age, some technocratic billionaire will likely have developed a microchip to implant to store happy memories and bypass mischievous brains. Until then, the best we can do is check in our brains from time to time to see what they’re up to. 

Anyway, Thomas has had a great start to kindergarten. Despite all of our worries, he seems happy as the proverbial lark. And despite his happiness, when we ask him what he did in school each day, he says, “I can’t remember.” 

Forgetting happy memories starts early. 

Thomas on his first day!