The Rural Voice, 1995-12, Page 6Large Selection
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262 10th St.
519 364 7743
2 THE RURAL VOICE
Gisele Ireland
Two lost generations
If the men who toss their socks
under the beds of your house are
anything like the males who reside
here, you will have discovered long
ago they seem to have difficulties
locating their possessions. Not the
big things mind
you — they can
find the
buildings and
usually know
where any
piece of
machinery is —
but the smaller
things that are
moveable seem
to elude their
selective
memories.
Rumblings
of masculine
outrage were drifting my way from
the back room where both Super
Wrench and Son were pawing
through the work closet for their
thermal coveralls. One lone pair
hung there, when there should have
been about six and the only reason
they were there was because neither
one fit into them. I was frantically
seeking an escape route because I
knew what was coming next.
"Where did you hide the
coveralls?" both demanded in unison.
I thought a bit of honour was called
for and told them I used them to
mulch the tomatoes. They didn't
crack a smile. I was told in no
uncertain terms that it was butt -
freezing weather out there and I'd
better locate them pronto. So there.
I'm convinced the only reason
Columbus discovered America was
that he literally ran into it and had his
wife not been at home, likely trying
to find his navigating instruments,
she'd have beat him to it.
I did find the coveralls, not in the
house, but in their natural
environment, the shop and the barn.
A casual stroll through the premises
yielded one pair, with very little rump
left, hanging behind a board. Super
Wrench suddenly remembered
putting them there after he'd backed
into the shop stove, setting his rump
on fire. He was going to fix them,
with the welder I presume. The other
pairs were equally gross in condition
and stuffed in the oddest places. The
ones they had wadded on a tractor
seat were the worst. They were
covered with slime of undetermined
origin. While I was there, I also
gathered a large number of thermal
water jugs, a lot of them starting to
grow penicillin cultures, because
come spring, guess what they would
be hunting for?
Not being able to find things must
be a genetic abberation since so many
men are afflicted with this condition.
The tie they've hunted for as they are
dressing for church is usually
permanently pleated in their suit coat
pocket where they stuffed it the last
wearing. The underwear that's gone
missing is usually in the next drawer
down, but it obviously makes no
sense to a male to open more than
one drawer.
The contents of the refrigerator
also seems to baffle them. Super
Wrench wanted horseradish with his
roast beef and moaned I'd forgotten
to get it ... AGAIN ... Not so! If it
had been any closer to him it would
have bitten him. Maybe he was
confused by the fact the French side
was facing him and he didn't
recognize Raifort, but it still looked
like horseradish to me.
A bright idea occurred to me as I
was attempting to locate a package of
gaskets they swore were put on the
kitchen hutch. Why not charge a
finder's fee and amass piles of loot
for Christmas shopping? Super
Wrench nixed the idea immediately
when he threatened to cease giving
me his special maps when I was
leaving the farm on safaris (usually
for the men), and I'd never get where
I'm supposed to be going; or worse
yet, never make it back to home base.
They'd never let that happen though.
Who'd find their snowmobile boots
for them?0
Gisele Ireland, from Bruce County, is
an author of several humorous books
on farm life.