Stream of Consciousness

I am a real estate agent. That means I assist buyers and sellers of real properties for a fee. Today I showed land.

Redneck Practice.

The art of the redneck teleconference. Get in your truck heading out on the road. See your friend in her truck heading toward you on the road. Flash your lights and slow down. Stop opposite your friend’s front car window. Roll down your car window and talk to your friend. Redneck teleconferences are free except for the cost of the gas. ’Course, they tend to be on the short side if anyone else is driving on the same road in either direction.

Betty is on a cruise for 4 months – an around the world cruise. She sent me an e-mail from onboard the Aegean One requesting that I run into Junior (J.C.) Smith to ask him to go up to Black Bear Cabin and check to see if everything is okay. So, today I am driving back to Syria after showing land. I see a gray Caprice heading in my direction with an old gray-haired man at the wheel. I am going pretty fast, but I tap on my brakes (Junior knows my truck).  I look in the rear view mirror and see answering brake lights. This is redneck subtext for “let’s stop and chat a while.” However, at 60 miles per hour, this means I must first find a place to turn around, which I do. I head back in the opposite direction, now driving approximately 75 miles per hour (you can get away with this only if you are me driving on my farm road) in an attempt to catch Junior. After 1˝  miles, I come close to the Caprice, but there is a sedan in between us now – doing the legal limit of 35miles per hour, and no, Junior isn’t driving slowly. The sedan turns off early, only to be replaced by a Yuppie in a clean, new Blazer. The Yuppie insists on doing the legal limit of 25 through town. Junior isn’t. Finally, we lose the Yuppie and I can catch up to Junior’s Caprice on the highway intending to flag him down for a redneck teleconference – which actually does work on a two-lane highway.

Just one little problem.  The geezer in the Caprice ain’t Junior.  Sigh… I turn around and head back through town and go home. It never occurred to me to just call Junior on the telephone. I usually run into Junior either at the Mercantile or at Banco Store, or out driving on the road. I wonder if Junior even has a telephone. I’ll check the directory.

On my way home, I notice that Michele and Billy are at the barn feeding the horses. I walk to the barn. Billy tells me Michele has gone to call the vet. I ask why. “Your horse has a big gash on his leg.”

Tez is in his stall & Michele is keeping him company. I am sitting by the phone waiting for the doctor to call and say he is coming. It’s a stitch-em-up problem by the looks of it. Can’t wait for normal vet call hours tomorrow because we have one hell of a winter storm coming to Central Virginia tomorrow.

So, here I sit. Waiting for the vet. I sell real estate. I have a gashed horse. I drive too fast. I am too busy for my life, and now I am missing the "Steak Or Oysters Supper" at the Madison County Rescue Squad.  Is there a cornball country western song in this booger somewhere, and where do I go for diction lessons to get the accent?

Syria, Virginia
The Brown House
January 2000