So, I'm home from a shortened day at the Station, in which I had ZERO visitors, unless you count David, Marly, Phil, and one of the folks from the Mental Health Center. While I was there, I took a few notes about this and that:
Observation: The aroma of fresh baked bread was rising from the newly planted wheat fields as I drove down Route 66 at sunrise this morning. Is this normal? This is one of those things a transplanted city girl knows very little about.
Observation: When men visit Afton Station, if they have any questions or comments about the old cars, they will inevitably direct them to any man who happens to be in the room, before they will direct it to me. When they hear that I own the place, their eyes glaze over. Even if one of my volunteers tells them to ask me their questions because I know more than they do, the male visitors just can't seem to allow themselves to do it. They can't look me in the eyes. Apparently, cars = men only. I find it quite humorous.
Observation: The Afton city boys are digging to install a French drain from the place from which our leak is originating, or so they think. There's been quite a bit of head scratching. I'm a little skeptical about their knowledge of French drains. They've decided that "Lake Afton" is being created by groundwater, not a broken pipe. This could be amusing.
And now, I think I need to stop writing and close up the computer. The wind is getting stronger and the predictions on TV are becoming a bit more dire.
"The aroma of fresh baked bread was rising from the newly planted wheat fields..."
If it smells like French bread then it's likely that someone's improperly installed a French drain so that it empties into the field. If not then you may have stumbled upon an illicit bakery. Be very careful.
Point well taken, Denny. I prefer the French drain theory. Perhaps the handy dandy Afton public works crew got a bit off course. Without casting too many aspersions toward the expertise of the crew, it's a possibility that they miscalculated by a few dozen miles.
I'm one Male Chauvinist Pig who comfortable enough with my masculinity to ask a woman a question about cars.
It's funny that you say that men don't ask you questions about cars. It reminds me once when my Mom got a temporary Christmas job at an Otasco (remember them?) in Coffeyville. When someone wanted to buy a gun, the store manager sent for her because she knew more about them than any man working in there.
If you don't want storms up there, send them here. We NEED some rain here.
I'm glad you can laugh at the car/men-only phenomenon. It's pretty silly that still happens. I work for a taxi-cab cooperative, and we've had a female maintenance manager (head mechanic) since I've worked there. Both do excellent work, and it's really normalized that radical concept for a bunch of car-parts-deliverers/suppliers in Southern Wisconsin.
I got a good laugh out of the looks on a couple of the guys' faces the first time Ron and I went out to the Blue Whale to help clear brush around the mushrooms, and it was discovered that I was not only willing but also able to drag large branches and small tree saplings from the woods to the brush pile without masculine assistance. I think they've gotten used to my fondness for power tools, though, because nobody batted an eye last week when I insisted on being part of the drywall crew at the souvenir shack. :)
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