Post Desserts

The Weenerman is thinking, “What is required is a new Plan!”
Ernie frowns, “Bummer, good Plans are hard to come by,” as he pours some murky green pop over what is left of the ice creme in his Ugly Mug.

All I can say is, “What a Vivid shade of green.”

“The murky green pop must be reacting with the garbanzo beans,” the Weenerman postulates.

“It does,” Ernie puts in, “I’ve tried it before.”

“On-going research,” the WeenerMan nods, “My Commendations.”

“Thanks, as long as they don’t cost me anything,” Ernie replies.

There is a strange fizzing sound and then this ugly green slime comes bubbling over the top of the Mug and spills down the side.

‘Neat,’ Ernie says, ‘I never had green pop do that before.”

“The Experiment must be replicated,” the Weenerman announces as both of us pour murky green pop over what remains of the garbanzo bean vanilla to see what happens.

Sure enough, there is a gurgling sound, and then a grungey green foam rises to the top of the Mug,  puases a moment as if looking to see if the coast is clear, and then foams over and starts to ooze down the side of the Ugly Mug.

“Amazing,” the Weenerman says, “Looks like one of those volcano projects the smart kids take to Science Fair.”

“Hey look,” Ernie popints out, “That green pop is eating the ink right off the side of the Mug!”

“That is Permanent Ink,” I say uneasily.

“Indestructable,” Ernie answers.

“And we consumed it,” I’m still trying to think this through.

“There is no time to dawdle,” the Weenerman announces, “the time to act is Now! I have a plan.”

“Ernie, Make up some more signs and get them around town, and Scout, go fire up the Ernie-mobile,” Weenerman announces.

“And you’ll be doing?” I ask.

“The Weenerman starts accross the street to the Burdock, “Getting sustenance of course, all this enteprenourialship works up my appetite!”

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Climb Aboard

“Climb Aboard or Eat My Dust!” The Weenerman yells out as he turns the key, “Vroom! Vroom!” HM calls as he turns the Key. I jump into the bed and wave goodbye to John and Charley Greene as we peel out down the road to New Adventures in Clover County.
The WeenerMan points the Buck Truck into the general direction of the more agricultulral regions of the township.Soon we are surrounded by corn.
The dust gravel-mix swirls up into the air and into the bed of the BuckTruck. I cough. Truck gets dirty.
By the way, a hand-painted sign appears by the road way. An arrow points through a clump of trees that lead into a field with a line of cars and vehicles.
The sign reads, “Hickstown Free Ag Cornfeild CarWash, Proceeds benefitting Hickstown Vocational Agriculture.”
The Weener veers down into the copse of Trees, Weener!” I try and worn him.
“What’s to Worry about!” The Weenerman yells back, “After all, Its’s Free!!!”
We bounce off of the road and thru the copse of tree. Two of the Ag Group come out to meet us.
“You look thirsty, Sir,” one of the group says.
I start cracking up, “Sir? the Weenerman? in the same sentence? I am pounding the side of the truck.

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Feats of Clay

“That was close,” HM swears, as the Weener guns the BuckTruck all the way up to a chug.We pull away from Honest John’s expansive backyard, “Almost got caught by Real Work.”
“Where to next?” I enquire.
“Back across the River!” the WeenerMan states decisively, “To the Water-Bridge!”
“Yeah, I left some crates to unload back the Elevator,” I remark.
“More Work?” the WeenerMan is caught unawares, “To the Droll-Bridge!” He exclaims decisively.
We race to the drollbridge. The BuckTruck really isn’t any faster than the RodneyMobile except the fenders don’t go flying off during acceleration.
“Do we even have time?” I ask.
“What’s the risk?” HM WeenjerMan asks, “We listen to one of
Drollinger’s stories, Laugh at a couple of his worn-out jokes, and we’re accros the River,” HM answers, “It’s a cinch, what could go Wrong?”
We bump along, as we approach the Droll-Bridge, the Weener-Man spots a gathering of folks off in the Drollinger’s front yard, right along the banks of the Too-Much Creek, “What the Oscar Myer??” is his only reaction.

Grampa Drollinger almost steps into the middle of the road to wave us down.
“The Master of Ceremonies is Here!” he announces.
Then I can make out some of the people in the Gathering, “What’s the Tribe doing here?”
“So,” the Weenerman inquires.
“The Guest of honor,” we recognize the stentorian voice of Chief Greene.
“Chief Greene,” I greet him, “What got you off your John Deere long enough to come here?”
“Do you remember, today we honor the Ancestors, the Day of the Mound-Building,” Chief Greene answers to us.
Mound-Builders? I ask, didn’t know that your tribe were descended from them? They like disappeared a couple of centuries before your time.”
“Tribes migrate, to the SouthEast, meet other Tribes,” Chief Greene explains.
“And?” I can’t help but to ask.
“What Tribes of Nations were your ancestors,” a calm,even question comes from Chief-tress Woman-Greene.
“I scratch my head, “Some German, Irish, Polish” I reply.
The Chief speaks to his Wife, “You were right.”
“Some things are apparent,” the Chief-tress Woman-Greene smiles calmly.
I shrug, “And there are even stories about a couple of my ancestors being from the Tribes.”
“Can this be documented?” Chief-tress Woman-Greene quiries.
“Not exactly I reckon,” I reckon, “the marraiges were to have occurred just before they started keeping records.”
“Sometime prior to the Incorporation of your Clover County,” the Cheiftress recalls her legal studies.
“There are some tribal legends of the Summer of the Giddy-Moon,” Cheif Greene recalls.
“But without written records, they are only Unofficial Legends,” Cheiftress Woman-Greene reminds him.
“This news is a relief,” Chief Greene nods positively.
There is a possiblility that our forebearers had an unusual sense of humor,” Cheiftress Woman-Greene agrees. She hands me a green five gallon-pail.
“Now Whant’s this for?” I stammer.
“To honor the forebearers of the Tribe,” Grampa Drollinger translates.
“Wha-?” I manage.
“Do It Yourself Mound-Builder Mound,” Grampa Drollinger explains more.
Thee Mound in question was begun prior to the title deed,” Cheiftresse Greene points out.
“Our Tribe retains a residual interest to complete the Indian Mound Cheif Greene “goes on, “so every year to honor the forebearers, we go to work on the Mound.”
“Mr Drollinger, you do have a backhoe,” I pointout.
“We try to do so in the way of the ancestors,” Cheiftresse Greene explains.
“And deerhide bags are scarce, so I supply these,” Grampa Drollinger thumps the bottom of a five-gallon bucket.
Doesn’t look to me that a whole lot of dirt is being moved, I say skeptically.
“Oh that,” Cheif Greene smiles broadly, Mainly this Gathering provides the Tribe to have a day of Feast, Game, and ReUnion.”
“Like a Big Family reunion,” Grampa Drollinger chuckles.
“Tribal in Nature,” Cheiftreese Greene corrects him.
This Tribal Talk is all so good, but doesn’t move a feat of clay,” Chief Greene reminds us of the task at hand.
Everyone looks at me.
I accept the green five gallon pail.
Grampa Drollinger remembers something, “Whnat about the
WeenerMan, “Why I remember when he had the neighborhood kids digging a hole to the middle of the earth.”
“We sure did catch the devil,” I reply with a flinch.
“The guest of honor , performing labor at the Feast-time?” Cheiftress Greene asks.
Mostly, He would stand around, scoop a few shovels of earth, and give orders,” Chief Greene points out.
“Sounds like Honest John,” I scratch my head.
“He can’t,” Grampa Drollinger points out, “He’s mowin’ my lawn this afternoon.”
“But is he American-Tribal?” Cheiftress Greene brings up.
“Well, they did find him swinging thru the trees on the Yucatan Peninsula,” Grampa Drollinger recollects, “Living with a pack of Wild Howler Monkeys.”
“The Mayan come form the Yucatan, that should work,” Chief Greene recounts.
I slap the side of my head, “The real storey was that every time the skool took a field trip to the State Zoo, the Weener would always slip away and that we’d find him at the Monkey Island grunting at all the Howler Monkeys.”
“The Storey I have is that he got lost the time he hitched a train,” Grampa Drollinger recounts, “Nobody noticed much him missing for a couple months. Scout, Ernie, and Honest John had to hitch a ride on a trip down with the Mennonites to go own there and find him. In turn, Scout here got the ‘Rescue Party’ lost for a couple days,”
“Suddenly Mr.Drollinger’s version of events take on a sudden validity,” Cheiftresse Greene nods.
“They found him at last,” Grampa Drollinger emphasizes, “In the Jungle, swinging thru the trees!”
“Honest John been known to exasgerate matters,” I point out.
Just then w single limb from the willow tree descends to just over the picnic table. The arm of the Weenerman reaches out and picks out a chicken quarter and a piece of cherry pie. and just as automatically, the limb disappears back up into the tree canopy.
“Summon the Guest of Honor,” Cheiftresse Greene announces.
Grampa Drollinger holds two fingwerrs to his mouth and whistles.
A bough of branches on the willow bow down and out steps HM WeeenerMan, just finishing off a drum-stick.
“Good-Barbecue,” HM WeenerMan remarks.
Chief Greene nudges Grampa Drollinger.
Grampa Drollinger gives two sharp trwo-finger whistles.
Most of the Tribe leaves the picnic tables. and come over quickly to the formative Indian Mound.
“This had better be for the good,” one Tribal member asserts, “You interrupte the horticulture session just as it was getting to the important stuff.”
“Wha-?” I start.
“Our heritage and ancestry,” Cheiftresse Greene explains, and your archaeology she shrugs with a mysterious smile, “The building of mounds was a time of worship, feasting, and celebration,” The cheiftresse smiles wryly, “It was also a time for an exchange of ideas and education.”
Education? I ask, and You got the Weener?
“He graduated with a Certificate,” Cheiftresse Greene assures me.
“And now for the Honrored Guest Ceremony, Chief Greene announces, and hands the Weenerman the shovel.
“This is for?” the Weener takes the shovel , tosses the drumshtick to a nearby cat.
You are the Honored Guest, the Master of Ceremonies, the emcee,” Grampa Drollinger answers,.
The Weenerman is still mystified.
“The ring-Leader,” Cheiftresse Greene translates.
“The RingLeader, Really?” the WeenerMan inspects the shovel, “I’m thinking I’ll really like this job.”
“What about me?” I slip in.
You get the Honor of working on the Ceremonial Mound,” Chief Greene recites.
“Sounds like flunky work to me,” I object.
“Then You stand corrected,” Cheiftresse Greene replies mysteriously, hands me the pail.
“Donn’t Worry You’ll get help-Cousin,”I look over to see a few of the Young Bucks grinning away.
“I scratch my head, I am not sdure if two references made before they kept any official records really make us cousins,” I try and explain.
The cousin who introduces himself as John Greene gives a counter-explanation, “When there is clay to be carried, anybody is a potential-Cousin.”
“He may good at this clay-carrying,” a Younger Buck chips in, “He might be from the pail-faced side of the Family.”
John gives the Younger buck a quick dutch-rub, “Don’t mind Charley, he seems to have a knack for corny humor,” John Greene shrugs, He still cracks up over the Outhouses with the cut-your-Own Hole in the Seat story.”
Thw Weenerman jumpw into action. He leaps upon the mound of clayand starts to give directions. John and Charley are designated as shovlers, the Cousins and I get stuck casrrying the 5-gallon pails over to be dumped wherever the Weener points grunts, and directs.
One of the Cousins growls at the Weener as he gets his pail filled, By the Way, who put you in charge?”
“I’m the Shop-forehead!” the Weener exclaims as he pulls the hair up off his brow.
Sure enough, he has the biggest forehead of any of us.
“Tribal-Legends tell of Great-Confusion,” John Greene confides to John Greene.
“Them Mound-Builders shore got that right,” Grampa Drollinger agrees.
Chief Greene is correct, under the Weenerman has me and the Cousinsall runinning to random points on the compass, scampering back for refills, and running into each other all in one well-choreographed exercise.
HM Weenerman meanwhile is having a blast pointing, shouting, directing, persuading, engineering, “I call it BluePrints in the saddle!” He announces.
“Mr Weenerman sould have kept his blueprints up between his ears.” Cheiftresse Greene observes.
After many more trips and exhortations to work cheaper and faster, Chief Greene looks up to the sun, checks his watch, and then nudges Cheiftresse Greene. She holds two fingers to her mouth and gives a Quadruple-whistle.
All the working Cousins gladly drop their pails and rapidly gather in front of the large reciprocating fans the Aunts and Uncles have run out from Drollinger’s main shed on extension cords.
From his perch in the Willow Tree, HN Weenerman shouts out, “Hey! Where’s everybody going? The Job has just started!”
Charley Greene looks back over his shoulder, “We figure our ancestors were at this 1500 years before this, so what’s the rush?”
The Weenerman slides down off the clay pile and joins us in front of the fans. Charley offers him a glass of ice-water.
“What is this stuff?” the Weenerman asks, “If it isn’t green, it might not be safe!”
Even Charley groans at that remark as someone finds the Weener a bottle of murky green pop.
I wipe my brow and ask John Greene, by the way, do you have any idea what they called this mound?”
John Greene smiles, “We believe they were going to call it Fish Mound. Perhaps because the fish were plentiful,”
Then John Greene takes a second look, scrambles up the pile of fill-dirt, slaps his head and exclaims, “Oh no!”
I follow John up the pile ad take one look, “Opps!” I Grimace.
Charley Greene has scrambled up after us and looks quizzically at the ongoing Indian mound.
John explains to Charley, “The ancestors must have called this Fish Mound, but now the fish is growing whiskers!”
Charley shrugs “So now we have Catfish Mound? Why’s that?”
The elders setting up chairs, pulling out fishing poles and casting out into the pool of water on either side of the Road Bridge, “I’m thinking the name Fish Mound stuck maybe because it gave the Old Farts a place to Go fishing,” He shrugs.
While the Young Bucks confer, the Old Farts start speaking up, “Hey, What is going aon? All that I am catching are joke-catfish!” “Me too!” “Yeah, same here!” and similar remarks. The First Speaker replies, “Drollinger, what is this happening? I akwqays catch many small-mouth bass h in this pool?”
Grampa Drollinger casts a wary glance to where Howler stands in front of the oscillating fans.
The first speaker nods and says grimly, “Oh yes, I understand, The WeenerMan-effect.”
A second speaker nods, “The forefathers tell of the times when this river ran with fish enough, and the Times of the Colonel.”
“You never mentioned having any troubles with the Settlers?” Grampa Drollinger remarks.
“No says the First, “Never any trouble except with your Colonel Weenerman.”
“Colonel WeenerMan?” Grampa Drollinger is surprised, “They say he liked everyone he ever met.”
Yes, but the legends tell, Chief Greene speaks of the times when colonel WeenerMan appeared at this very pool, the only fish we could catch were then your yellow jokeble catfish.”
“That’s why your tribe received such favorable terms on the lease,” Cheiftresse Greene informs Grampa Drollinger.
And then another tribal elder gets a tug on the line, “And the lease continues.” he observes the wiggling little yellow catfish on the end of his line.
John Greene, Charley, and I are standing in front of the reciprocating fan, observing all of this in amusement, when John slqps his head and groans, Oh No, and scrambles up to the top of the pile of fill dirt, “I should have thought of this!”
Charley and I scramble up the pile after John, “That’s funny!” Charley chimes in after only one look.
I manage to say, “Ooops.”
John Greene slaps a hand across his brows, “Funny? It looks like the Fish Mound has grown whiskers.”
“What did you expect?” Charley Greene giggles, “With HM WeemnerMan in charge, all we can catch are Joke-Catfish!”
I pick up the pail and start back down.
“And You?” Cheiftresse Greene challenges me.
“I guess,to fix the whiskers,” I shrug.
Cheiftresse Greene crosses her arms sagaciously, “No need,” she says eloquently, “This mound also serves as an unwritten record of our tribe, and,” even Cheiftresse Greene smiles as the smaller kids set up on the whiskers and fish-lines from cane-polesinto the Too Much Creek, “It gives us a place to put the Grandkids.”
I put my pail back and get ready to leave, “Well sort-of cousin, when we have another mound-picnic, I’ll give you a yell.’
I nod agreeably.
Charley Greene looks dead-serious, “But leave the Weenerman at home, with him in charge…”
Absolute power, corrupts absolutely,” John Greene agrees stoically.
I grin and point over towards the fans.
“Wow, you’re right!” CharleGreene exclaims, The Weener can keep himself entertained!”
We all look over to where the WeenerMan is standing in front of the oscillating fans, watching the fans go back-and-forth, back-and-forth….
I start for the Buck-Truck.
“What about the Weener?” John Greene asks.
“I think that will take care of itself,” Charley Greene motions back to the oscillating fans.
I click open the drivers door and in a streak of dust, the Weenerman is behind the wheel of the BuckTruck, “My turn to Drive~!, Yeee-Hawwww!!!!” he yells.

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Mowing Abounds

I wave as Sidecar Granny vooms out of sight, “Thar’ she Goes,” I quip.”
“Welll,” Honest John speaks up, there is the little matter about renumeration,” John shrugs, “Sidecar Granny said You’d be good for it.”

I check my back pocket, “Seem to have left the billfold back in the Buck-Truck.”

Honest John grins, “Nothing a little sweat-equity can’t handle,” he grins, “Say, I’ve got a little mowing that needs done around here.”

I look at a few patches of grass around the front of the station, “Sounds good to me.”
Honest John grins and points to a push mower, “There you go, the rider is in the shop for repairs.”

I shrug, there was a catch, but what could go wtrong with a few patches of grass

I roll the push mower over to the tree lawn and prepare to pull the cord, “Wait!” Honest John calls out, “I can always get the front this evening, the part that needs mowing is out back!” “Oh Well.” I shrug.
We go back behind the station to find a large five acre lot.
“What do you need with all this yard?” I ask in shock.
“The fella who sold the Station to me said they planned to put a truck stop here whan the Interstate went thru. It’d be a
Gold Mine.”
I frown, “The closest thing this area to an InterState is the State Highway that runs thru the Clover County Seat, and It’s lucky to be two-lanes in places.”
Honest John smiles broadly, “I know, maybe I just like the color green he grins, remember we have a deal.”
I grimace, “but 5 acres? I only owe you $5.15.”
“Comes out to a little over a dollar an acre,” I point out, “That’sd worthless.”
Honest John gives me the look, “I’ve seen your work before, and that’s about right.”
I point to over to the riding mower and say, “How about that?”
“Needs repared,ad I have been devoting my time to the profit center at the pumps,” John taps the side of his head, “Wpork smarter, not harder. Works out well, for most of us.”
Just then a sizeable truck pulls intot he pumps, and a deep horn sounds, “That’s Finchley,” Honest John announces, “He buys a mont6h’ of diesel at a time, this will take a while. Finchley is one of my Best Customers.,” then gives me a look, “You know what to do, get crackin'”
I shrug and pull the cord on the push mower. It stutters and coughs to life.
The push-mower coughs to l;ife than sputters. Then I hear another crash-bang and splutter. I look up to see the Weenerman pull roll the Buck Truck to a stop behind the station.
“Your Truck needs gas,” he remarks, Takes a look at the push mower, “What’s got into You?” the WeenerMan challenges me, “That looks like your fixing to something like,” he pauses in a sense of horror, “like real work, keep it up and I’ll have to report you to the International Brotherhood of Barny Bums.”
“I’m in a hole and can’t figure much other way around it,” I shrug.
The WeenerMan arches his brow profoundly, “A serious matter such of this requires much study and contemplation, he sits on the running board on the BuckTruck, reaches in and pulls out a can of murky green pop.
HM Weenerman grabs another and hands it to me, “Try this,” he announces.
“And murky green pop will help us solve the contemplation?” I ask.
‘No,” the Weenerman arches his brow, “But they’re cold,” he reaches in and turns the radio on, “This afternoon is the weekly country Jammboree on WFHC,” he says.
‘Kid Brother mush have gone to the County Seat Libray,’ I remark, ‘he’s got some different music on this afternoon.’
“Been meaning to get there myself,” the Weenerman decides, “The HicksTown Community Library ran out of crayons.”
The afternoon is warm, the pop cold, and the country music great.
We are glugging pop and singing along to Hank’s ‘Me and My Rpowdy Friend’s Don’t Got a Clue,”
“We sit around listening to Country, and Deinking Mountain,” Then we sort of run out of forget the words.
While Hank finishes the song for us, the Weenerman rubs his brow, “Guess it’s time,” he decides, “Time for a signifigant operation.”
The Weenrman pulls the toolbow out of the bed of the Bucktruck and sorts thru it, “Craftsman,nah. Snap-On, blah, Stanley, nope. Aha!, Beijing Chrome, hust what I need,” the Weener peoceds all the import tools out of the tool-bucket.
“need any help?” I ask.
The Weener-Man gets serios, “Sorry, but this procedure requires specialized training got at good old MBU.”
“From MatchBook University?” I ponder.
I received the top certificate and trading stamps from MBU,” the Weenerman confirms.
I step back to let the master proceed.
The Master climbs up onto the silent rider and turns the key, hears nothing, bounces up and down on the seat a few times, works the throttle back and forth, presses the clutch, shifts the gears in and out of neutral, turns the wjeele straight, bounces on the seat some more, plays with the lights.
I expect him to try and srart the mower again, but the master-Technician hops down form the mower and props the hood up, jiggles the battery terminals, puts an ear to the crankcase, pulls out the dipstick and carefully survetys the color and viscoucity of the motor oil. Then the Weenerman hops ack on the mower to raise and lower the mower deck lever, then leqns forward to visually inspect the belt tension.
As a finale, the Weenerman leqaps off of the mower and grabs a Saipan Instrument rubber mallet and bangs on the tires. mower deck, and other key points on the riding mower.
Sure enough, some clumps of fermenting grass fall to the ground.
I Krinkle my nose, sort of smells like Mountain-”
The Weenerman cuts me off, “More like the murkey green pop, might have just discovered a trade secret.”
And then like greased lightning, the WeenerMan plucks a Southern Bonga Tool ratchet and spark plug socket from the buckt, pulls the cap, and has the spark plug out in to time flat.
“Hmmm, just as I thought,” HM WeenerMan shows me the plug, “Sootier than a smokestafck on a trapper shack.”
“Whew,” I whistle, “have to run into Bascom’s for a replacement.”
No time for that,” the WeenerMan decides, Runs the plug up and down his arm hairs, then holds up the plug, “There ,” he says, “Better than steel wool.”
At that point, I declined comment.
With nary a pause, the weenerman ratchets the spark plug back in and climbs back up into the driversseat. HM bounces up and down, tuns the throttle steps on the clutch, shifts to neutral and turns the key.
The refitted mower purrs to life.
“You did it,” I observe.
“Of course!” the Weeneran asserts, at that point he hops up onto the seat and beats his chest, HM WeenerMan triumphs again! Bwahahahahahahah!”
Just then Honest john comes hurrying around the corner,”What?” he starts, “I thought I saw something like this on the late show.”
Just then a couple horseflies attracted by the commotion start buzzing the Weenerman. He absently swats at them while the buzzaround him in elliptical orbits.
Honest John catches his head and starts shaking his head knowingly, “Yep, now I know I saw it on the late movie.”
Late movie? I am interested, “what was on?”
Honest John grins, “An oldie, but goody, ‘Kong Escapes’.”
I like that one, but I never get to see the ending because I fall asleep by then.”
“Well Kong outsmarts them all,” Honest John assures me, “Stows away on a cruise liner back to his native Yucatan Penninsula.”
How did Kong pull that off as a cruise liner?” I ask in wonderment.
“Passed himself off as the Lounge Act.”
“Really?” I ponder,’That’d be hard.”
“Not on some of the cruises I’ve been on,” Honest John confirms.
The WeenerMan hops on the tractor seat, “Got to test the compression in the tires,” he notes.
“Got it running then?” Honest John asks.
“Took a lot of know how then,” John asks.
HM nods agrrement.
“Then why isn’t this here lawn mowed then?” Honest John’s face starts to get red, “It’ll lose its green stage and stsart to grow brown and you’uns got to kow I how much I like ‘Grass’Green!”
“I hought it was ‘Money’ green,” I quip.
‘The same difference,” Honest John scowls, “You agreed to have the backlot mowed by now, not sit out here all afternoon, drink pop, and howl at Country Music,” Honest John starts to turn redder.
“The pop is green,” I point out.
“I don’t care about your knock-off Mountain Radiator Juice,” Honest John is crimson, starting to border on Chartruese, “This here grass even looks longer than when your first started, You’uns are the Most Worthless!” Honest John is doing a good imitation of a volcanic eruption by now, lava and all.
“Ah, but there was a requirement for Technical Expertise.”
“Wh-,TechincalExpertise?” John sputters, “But you were just supposed to mow a yard!”
“But I had to find the Explanation before it could be mown,” the Weenerman explains mysteriously.
Honest John’s innate curiosity diverts his attention to where he forgotr what he was getting red about.
“Secret explanation?” John asks, “Will it make e any money?” he asks.
“A simple adjustment, that will save you time and money,” the Weenerman confirms.
“Well out with it my Worthless Fellow, any bit of Worthless news and tips is welcome around these here parts,” Honest John implores.
The Weenerman takes the time to look both ways before speaking cautiously, “The mower blade is out of synch with the mower blades,” HM WeenerMan says solemnly.
“Mower belt out of synch?” Honest John is baffled.
“You know of those numbers on the mower belt?” HM says knowingly.
“The serial numbers, yeah” Honest John aagrees.
“They are installed pointing forwards,” the Weenerman explains, “Through prolonged use and friction they can be pulled to the back, and get out of proper revolution,”
Honest John smacks the side of the his own head, “And so the mower goes out of synch! Golly the Mower is only two-years old.”
“With a thick lawn that’s enough time,” the Weenerman assures John, “Tested it out at the Estate, and that’s how it works, the off-kilter blade action seems to simulate the grass to grow back thaqt much faster, you can tell.”
Something to do with the coleoptyl tips of the grass. MBU taught us well .”
“Tried and tested,” Honest John thinks, “But I’m too busy to go rotating a belt now,” he objects.
The WeenerMan holds up a hand sanguinely, “I’ve made some temporary adjustments,” he says, “the mower will work fine to the end of the season.”
“Well in that case,” Honest John decides, I ought just go with it like it is and change the belt next spring.”
“Along with a change of the oil and sparkplug, that’s exactly what I’d do,” HM WeenerMan supports John’s conclusion.
Honest John vigorously shakes the WeenerMan’s hand, “Thant’s exactly what I’ll do, Thanks WEeenerman, you sure are a good pal when a guy is in need.”
Weenerman nods, “Amnd if there’s any more difficulty, you know where to call.”
I’ll keep that murky green pop cold in the fridge,” Honesr John agrees, then he looks at me, “See, the Weenerman works hard and is vigilant, but you , you are totally wor4thless, couldn’t even mow a darn lawn!”
I shrug.
Honest John frowns, “Tell you what, why don’t you just Scout yourself a way out the back, and hit the road!”

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I climb up onto loading dock and am greeted by the vroom, vroom of a motorcycle.
I lose my balance and tip over into a pile of burlap bags.
“Hey there Young Feller, don’t get wrapped up in that burlap,” the SideCar Granny calls over to me.
“SideCar Granny!” I exclaim as I recover and stand up out of the pile of bags, “You surprised me, didn’t figure to catch you here at the RailHead.”
“Geraniums,” SideCar Granny tells me, “Geraniums.”
I scratch my head, “Um SideCar Granny, I never figured you to be the tend-the-flowerbed type, you know.”
SideCar Granny rolls her eyes. she pulls back a tablecloth that she had over something in the sidecar, “Geraniums,” Granny informs me, “Got to keep fuel in the gas tank you know.”
“Geraniums?” I ask.
“Got the shoots off some plants down at the Country House Diner,” SideCar Granny confides, Jus tstarted them in a jar of water, and soon,”
“I’m surprised,” I remark.
“Wha-?” SideCar Granny gasps, “Why anybody can start geraniums that way.”
“No,” I asnswer, That the CountryHouse Diner would let you in.”
SideCar Granny laughs, “Well I don’t exactly see you in there much either, I just go for morning coffee, when I’m on my Morning Runs.”
“Wake up?” I ask.
“Brunch,” SideCar Granny smiles, “You gotta get up pretty early in the morning to get a jump on SideCar Granny.”
“CountrytHouse Diner opens ’round Five Don’t they?” I ask.
“Earlier if I bang on the door,” SideCar Granny cackles.
“That’s early.” I remark.
“You’ve got to lock up pretty early in the morning to stop SideCar Grannyh,” she announces.
“Bet they’re all woke up by the time that you’re thru with them,” I conjecture.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” SideCar Grany smiles toothfully.
I change the subject, “And so what brings us here today?” I ask.
“Geraniums,” SideCar Granny frowns at the repeat, “Gas Credit You know,” she winks.
“Oh yeah,” I slap the side of my head.
SideCar Granny pulls a small ledger book out of her leather vest, “Here, get the geraniums.”
I start to lift the heavy box, “But wait,” I stop, “They’re yours,”
“Got you that time Sonny,” SideCar Granny cuts me off.
SideCar Granny and I tromp our way over to the Main Office, Garden, and Miscellaneous Office.
SideCar Granny!” there is a notye of joy in the office girl’s voice, then, “Oh, Him.”
“He brought the Flowers at least,” SideCar Granny sticks up for me.
“At least, the least,” the office girl sighs.
“Umpf,” I manage to gasp from beneath the heavy load.
“Over there Sonny,” SideCar Granny interprets. I plop the soda-crate of potted geraniums onto the hardwood counter.
“Unload them out of the Box,” SideCar directs me, “Those antique soda-crates are worth something, you know.”
I p[atriotically grumble as I take the geraniums out of the crate and place them on the counter top.
“Not there!” the Office Girl interjects, “Over there on the paper.”
“Always new the Clover County Gazette and Bird Cage Liner would be good for something, someday,” SideCar Granny observes.
Whew,” I wipe my brow as I limp out onto the loading dock.
Then, “Sonny Get in!” SideCar Granny urges me.
I’m confused, “Like You’re an action-hero?” I ask
‘Tried that,” SideCar Granny shrugs, “Hollywood bored me.”

We vooommm down the road and then pull into Honest John Poole’s gas station on the outskirts of Hickstown. John amble out.Fill’er up, wit Hpremium,” Sidecar opens the gas cap lid.

Of course, John is pleased and pumps the cycle up with his best fuel.
Honest John pulls out his calculater and figures the tab up at 5.51 dollanrs.
Sidecar Granny coughs and holds her throat, “Sure wish this Township would pave some roads,” Sidecar gasps, “This dust sure is getting to my throat,”
I hop out of the sidecar, “No problem,” I say as I get to the soda machine, “What flavor?”

SideCar Granny clears her throat, “What they have?” she asks.

Honest John shrugs, “All that’s in there, is that murky green pop stuff, only thing that keeps chilled.”

“Whoops!” Sidecar Granny shouts, “Mythroat has suddenly cleared! she exclaims, “See you later, sucker, er Scout!” with that SideCar Granny fires up the cycle and rolls out of the station and down the road.

“Why did you have to tell her about the green pop?” I ask John, “There goes my ride.

The gas station owner shrugs, “I was just being Honest,” he suggests.

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Back in Line

The driver drives across the gravel lt.
“Not Far, wish it could’ve been further,” the driver half-apologizes.
“Oh well, saved me some steps,” I reply back to him.
“And?” the driver looks to the can of murkly green soda pop.
I grimace, “Saved me some steps, here,” I hand the driver the can of pop.
The driver pops the top and downs the entire contents in a couple swallow, and gets a funny look on his face, “Almost tastes good, but Wh–at,s in this stuffs,” he chokes out.
I shrug, “Never been brave enough to ask.”
The driver grimaces, “I can see why,” he replies.
“You can always have another choco-pellet,” I suggest.
“I’ve had enough ‘organic’ for one day,” the driver answers squeamishly.
The driver crushes the can and tosses it into the back of the truck.
“It’s not aluminum,” I advise him.
“Figure that, the driver answers, “I’ll recycle it with the steel cans.”
“I think it’s tin,” I put in.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” the driver grins before thorowing his truck into gear and pulling out with a wave.

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I finally decide, “Well, tell you what, help me finish shoveling out that bin of oats, and this here can’s yours,” I offer.
The driver notices the bit of heat and shrugs, “Too warm to be working too hard,” he shrugs, “Tell You what, you needing a ride?”
I see more vehicles and carts pulling in, “Looks like I’m busy.”
“Better you than me,” the driver grins, “Hop in, I can at least give you a ride back that far.”
“Good Enough,” I agree and hop into the pick up to the drive back to the line.

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Contents in Question

We finally get the truck bed cleaned out. Pulls out a box of round chocolate carmes and gives me a couple before he snacks on a few.
“Good,” I remark, “What’s in them?”
The Driver waits a couple seconds as I scoff the choco-pellets,” he says , “are Organic.”
“And You’re a rabbit-farmer,” I gulp.
“Theyu’r eorganic,” he replies mysteriously mischeiviously.
I nearly choke, “Orrganic,” I agree.
The Driver grins, “The Mrs makes them, I don’t have no idea what’s in them.”
“Obviously,” I chough.
“Well, it’s time to go,” the driver announces as he skips over and hops into his truck, “Runs a bandanna over his forehead, “Rather toasty,” he observes.
“Maybe I can help out,” I grin and step over to the galvanized water tank the Railhead Elevator kept filled with ice and soda pop for patron convenience.
I fish thru the half-melted ice and slush for just the right brand of soda.
“”Aha,” I announce.
“Aha, what?” the driver asks.
“Just the brand,” I remark off-handedly.
“Really, what kind?” the driver asks innocently.
I raise my brow, an innocent, we have a live one here.
“My favorite kind,” I remark, “Alas, there’s only one can left, too bad you I’ll have to quaff the contents of this delectable brew,” I shrug, “But like, you know; first com, first served.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” the driver answers with a look of disappointment.
“It’s a rarity,” I shrug.
“Like a home brew?” the driver takes interest.
“You could say that,” I grin slightly.
“A rare home brew,” the driver says almost licking his lips, “out on the homestead we don’t get much special.”
I look up, “and it’s imported too.”
The driver rolls his eyes, “Imported, must be a luxury staple.”
“Immported from Clover County Seat,” I smile, they bring a few cases out on the trunk-line train every so often,” I explain.
The driver looks at me factually, “I get so busy on the farm, even Clover County Courthouse seems like a far off place.”
“You could make it to HicksTown,” I venture.
“But I was talking about going to a far-off place, not a far-out place,” the driver intercedes.
I have to agree.

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