I
try not to wear maxi skirts; they tend to make me look like I belong to a cult
of hippy dwarfs. No disrespect to hippies or Snow White’s buds or cults. Long
skirts also tend to wrap around my ankles, hooking my heels in an aggressive
and hostile manner.
Long
skirts are just this side of death traps, in my opinion.
So
if you see me wandering about in a long, heel-hooking skirt, it’s because I’m
hiding something.
Two
weeks ago, last Sunday I had to wear a maxi skirt to church. I was hiding fire
ant pus bites that covered my leg flesh from my ankles to my knees.
Ant
pus bites that I received while standing in a ditch next to our street,
Kissimmee Park Road. I was standing in the ditch putting a halter on Rosie the
Pony that was having a high old time snacking on the bucket of feed I use to
trap equine jail breakers.
A
bucket of feed that I had set in an enormous fire ant hill, because I was
distracted by the wailing of the fire engine that went roaring down our country
lane at the exact time of Rosie the Pony’s escape attempt.
A
fire ant hill that poured forth enough fire breathing ants to fill the bucket
and leap onto Rosie the Pony’s nose and cause her to snort fire ant laden
nostril snot onto my person, while their angry ant co-drones raced up my shins
to gnaw on my age spots.
Age
spots that were soon covered with fire ant pus bites, while Sarah, my
daughter-in-law, directed traffic: the fire engine, assorted pickup trucks, the
neighbor—come to help, possibly a goat pulling a cart.
Sarah,
my daughter-in-law, who hearing my howling yelps for assistance grabbed the
bucket filled with fire ants and handed it to Emma, the granddaughter, who
thought that Rosie the Pony had been trotting over to say, “Hi, Emma,” when
Emma was holding the front gate open for the family van.
Rosie
the Pony who had not been trotting over to say, “Hi, Emma,” but to say, more
along the lines of, “Wow, you
people are morons,” as she bolted for the sweet, sweet grass of the ditch.
Sweet,
sweet grass that hid a gigantic fire ant hill filled to the brim with fire ant
pus makers, whose attack required me to have to wear a frumpy skirt to church.
Or
as Emma wailed, “Hey, Mom, this bucket is full of fire ants.”
Country
Living Lessons Learned:
**Ponies
trotting toward an open gate may have ulterior motives.
**The
grass is always greener in the ditch.
**Maxi
skirts make good cloaking devices in a pinch.
Linda
(Beware Attack Ants) Zern
