Howdy friends and neighbors. There is just nothing like the smell of rain. The clean, crisp, damp air enters your nose and tickles your toes. It is amazing how this country I live in can go from miserable and mean to absolutely beautiful overnight. We finally caught a little rain this past week, but we could always use a little more.
I’m ready for the wind to slow down a few knots now. Sunday, the wind was doing what wind is supposed to do, blowing, and as we started to get out of the pickup to go into church, instinct took over and it was automatic that I wait until my wife got out and shut her door before I opened mine.
To folks that don’t habitate in wind prone regions, that might seem a bit odd. But for those of us that live where the “wind comes sweeping down the plains,” this bit of prairie knowledge keeps the entire, unsecured, inner contents of your vehicle from being displayed across the church parking lot. Even the Bible says that we are to keep our business out of the church.
So, by letting my wife and kid exit the south side of the pickup while I kept a vacuum lock on the north by keeping my door shut, I kept the “wind tunnel” effect from happening in the front seat. Folks, NASA could do space shuttle re-entry nose cone research in the front seat of my pickup on what native plainsmen would consider a “breezy” day.
If naïve, unsuspecting, victims of the high-low pressure war were to open both doors at the same time, the naugahyde seat covers could be in Padre Island faster than spring-breakers on a Friday afternoon. Not to mention, old man back row might see what you were giving for 20% cubes off a two year-old co-op ticket and demand the manager give him the same deal at today’s price.
Worse yet, my wife could be in her new Sunday dress and the Doppler effect coupled with the unknown phenomenon of lateral dash board lift could reveal the true color of her under garments to the deacon on call as visitor greeter of the week.
But that’s not the worse that could happen. An entire decade of ranch records that include calving dates, open cows, bales of grass hay barrowed from a neighbor, dog shots, unused deer tags, toothpicks, an agenda for an extension meeting, a napkin with an ol’ boys number on it for a used head gate, and four sun damaged rubber bands could be scattered for three and half miles.
But even worse, and it involves my wife again, If I were to open that north door at the same time she opened the south door, the dried out mud and other particulate matter that might accumulate on the floor-board could get stirred up worse than congress over a pay raise. Black Sunday from the dust bowl days could be re-enacted as a thick cloud of fine bits of a daily commute to pastures sticks to the hair spray, mascara, number 304 base, and the latest signature series lip gloss of my first wife. The poor Deacon has ignored Miss Widow Smith, as his mouth is agape. Old man back row is praying the coop manager is a no-show and my wife is standing there, leaning into the breeze with a face full of whatever was on my floor boards as her dress does a Marilyn Monroe all while she dodges my ranch records, loose 16 gauge needles and my four-year-old’s Sunday School project from last week that included un-cooked macaroni. Me, well my hat blew off and she said she didn’t have time to go get it for me!
I’m Monte Tucker, and that is what’s under my hat, along with a sore lump.
Public Service Announcement from “What’s Under My Hat:” For the sake of your marriage, use the one-door-at-a-time, a.k.a. “ODAAT,” method on windy days. If you don’t, ODAAT can hurt!
