Remember the Alamo! Rang in my ears.
I stood under the sun and puffy-clouded blue in my pj’s with a feed bucket handle in the crook of my arm, a pitchfork in one hand, and the latch to the chicken coop in the other. The dogs yapped in their usual way during the normal critter feeding on the ten-acre plot we rule. That’s when it happened.
The dumb dogs quieted. I heard the rattle of a diesel engine and looked up to see a big dually pickup stop at the end of the drive. A man jumped down out of the driver’s seat and began his approach.
Crud! I’m out here in my pajamas. What should I do? As I thought, I felt, “Remember . . .” I puffed up my feathers like I was bigger than life, stepped slightly aside the coop into full view, and then reached down into the best hick voice I could find.
“What can I do fer ya?” Figuring that if he felt I was part and parcel of this here domain, he’d know I knew how to fight for it and myself. I am Texas stock, you know.
He halted his advance, slightly lifted both hands palms out, and began his spiel.
As he began talking, I decided I would go down fighting to protect all that is. My pj’s became bulletproof armor and that pitchfork would have to be good enough for spurring roosters of all kinds.
The dogs were useless. The dumb things seemed to have their tongues ripped out. Like they’re going to protect anything. By the way, do any of you loyal blog readers, all three of you, want a registered German Shepherd wuss? Free. Really.
“Yes ma’am, I just dropped by to see if I could pump out your septic.”
As he finished his sentence, I thought he must be a local as well. He gave a respectful response including the term “ma’am.” It once was said, in that Dennis Quad baseball movie something about Texas women being strong. He must’ve clearly understood that tr
uth from experience, the learning of a local.
In larger-than-truth style I hollered, “Naw!” And moved the pitchfork to the other hand, once again reaching for the coop latch. I kept my eye on both roosters, the one with feathers and the one climbing back into his truck.
No blood for the pitchfork, the armor melted into pj’s, and our ten-acre piece of God’s green earth was safe again.
On the breeze, I barely heard, “Remember . . .”
PS. I can speak hick when necessary, but I don’t write it very well. I hope you enjoyed this trivial/not-so-trivial confession of a preacher’s wife. I just had to write it down. Oh, if you want the dog, I’ll ship her, send her, bring her to you. Email Robin@RobinBryce.com.
Rooster picture from animalartstickers.com
How funny!!! I can picture the whole thing. If you have more funny stories to tell I’d love for you to be a guest storyteller on my blog. Truly, no pressure if you don’t have the time or desire. Great story!
Hello Sharon,
I’m glad you laughed.
Funny stories galore. I’ve got more than I can write. I would love to tell tall tales steeped in the truth of my life on your blog.
I’m pretty busy now, but I had to write that one down. It just wouldn’t leave me alone to do my “real” work.
If you would like, e-mail me and I can send you the file to post this one on your blog.
Too funny, Robin! I loved it. I could see it as well and even pictured puppy dogs or kittens on your pj’s! LOL! I would loved to have heard this guy’s conversation with his buddies! Keep up the armor!
This is funny! I had a scare out here with someone coming on our property (I’ll tell you about it later) — I was looking around the house and had momentarily considered using the vacuum cleaner as a weapon if necessary. Anyway, I just laughed to myself thinking of you clutching your pitchfork and speaking “hick.” Wow, I have known you for almost 3 years…and you never told me you were bilingual!
Hahaha!
Bilingual!!
Real hick would probably have trucks or tractors on their pj’s or they’d be cammo.
Can you guess what color the pj’s were?
Have not a clue… but for some reason in your first sentence when you described the sky… I projected that image onto your pj’s.
In my mind as I read this I was imagining you in some baby blue pj’s with puffy white clouds…
Okay, sweet thang. You Texas women don’t have nothing on us southern gals. One day I’ll have to tell you my story about the pigs, the dogs, and the country farmer. My PJs were pink.
Aw now. Come on Texas chicks. We can’t let a pig, dog, and farmer story in PINK pj’s top us.
I’m “fixin” to run out the door to a church planting think tank. I’ll check back in to see what other colors ya’ll guess.
btw, they weren’t cloudy.
Was it something that Chuck would like? Can I say that on the Confessions of a Preacher’s Wife blog?
Just looking for clues.
Darn, no clouds you say.
Ah, in Dallas and ready to be turbo-ed at this church planting thing.
Diane is calling for “true” confessions. I admit that these are not his favorites. As a matter of fact I don’t like them much either. Buying new pj’s is now a priority.
I’ll also admit that they were pink . . . Sad isn’t it. Sorry Vonda for making fun of your pink pj’s.
Should I buy new ones that work like feathers, poofed when threatened, and smooth and shapely otherwise? How about red ones?
Feathers….hmmm…that would be interesting. You would look like a Vegas showgirl-cowgirl (with your pitchfork and talking “hick”).
Have a great time in Dallas. By the way, there are lots of nice places to shop in Dallas- maybe you can pick yourself up some pretty pj’s!
Love ya!
I think I should get to pick her next set of pajamas. Nuff said.