Tag Archives: Hanger

Hey, Hey, Hayride!

Image by Matthias Böckel from Pixabay.

My first hayride at age nine in a creaky farm wagon — a 4-H outing — puzzled me. A novelty? No. Tractors prowled in fields surrounding our little Indiana town. My siblings and I rode in the back of a pickup at highway speeds, so burning up country roads at 15 mph didn’t shake me up.

Waving at farmers? Fun, but not extreme entertainment.

Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabay.

So, why did chaperones’ heads swivel as we chugged along? Just because they were responsible for children who had danced around a campfire, waving unfurled metal clothes hangers armed with burning marshmallows. Just because we’d consumed 10 s’mores apiece, why eyeball us like tractor hijackers?

By junior high, though, I’d figured out that mass sugar buzz didn’t cause the adults’ angst. Even clothes-hanger-marshmallow weapons appeared less threatening. The big concern: harvest moons, starry nights and chilly temperatures invited major snuggling.

And more.

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay.

Chaperones blackmailed into volunteering wished they’d signed up to dig the school’s new basement instead. But they yelled, “Heads up!” and bravely dug seventh grade babes and their current Numero Unos — generally six inches shorter — out of the hay.

Meanwhile, skinny nerds like me took extreme interest in local soybean crops.

Those popular kids were stupid. Embarrassing.

Lucky dogs.

By high school, few stared at soybean fields, and no one waved at farmers. Our choir performed a wholesome, cheesy song at fall concerts — “Hey, hey, hayride!” Privately, we chuckled. Dumb old people would believe we were equally wholesome.

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay.

The old people — aka our parents — didn’t buy it. Later, when our own children reached adolescence, we didn’t, either. Surprisingly, though, hayrides no longer seemed popular.

However, recent years have brought a hayride resurgence. Given helicopter parents and predatory lawyers, are wagons now equipped with car seats and airbags? Or is everyone swathed in Bubble Wrap?

Yet, hayrides have evolved to scary, elaborate levels we 4-Hers couldn’t have imagined. For example, a Maryland “family” attraction offers haunted hayrides in which zombies assail the wagon, even crawl aboard. Also provided: refreshments, bonfires, live bands, plus a haunted hotel, haunted corn maze, and a haunted circus.

Image by David Mark from Pixabay.

Give me the boring version, with only a full moon, crisp fall air, and burning up country roads at 15 mph.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have you ever gone on a hayride?

Inanimate Objects that Make Me Crazy

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay.

Down-to-earth types feel one with their material universe, but I refuse to merge my being with Inanimates that Make Me Crazy. For example:

Coat hangers. When I reach for one, it twists and tangles 10 more. Pants/skirts hangers await the moment I close the closet door — then dump 15 pairs of pants.

Cereal boxes. My husband has declared the Cheerios box off limits, just because I open the wrong end. He insists I mangle the bag, but when I used scissors, my dearly beloved said I trimmed it too short. He gets more bent out of shape than the box.

It may be an inanimate object, but that bag of chips sure looks like it’s sticking out its tongue at me.

Potato chip bags each contain five chips, four broken. But chips multiply with five-loaves-and-two-fish fervor into thousands when I open a bag, covering my kitchen, den and sidewalk.

Elevators. Long ago, I squished into one with a hundred other college students late to class. The elevator dropped an extra story. Now in their sixties, those people probably still prefer stairs, too.

Anything that says, “Insert tab A into slot B.” God constructed His world without a manual. I follow His example.

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay.

Ketchup packets. Manufacturers fortify “open here” spots with webbed steel. Also, booby traps that spurt ketchup up the nose of my business client. At one restaurant, a server regularly opened packets for me. Maybe she got tired of ducking.

Plastic wrap. I try to tame it with a chair and whip.

Computer “help.” Why doesn’t Bill Gates tell the truth and call it “hinder”?

Meat hammers. Inspired by the Cooking Channel, I aspired to a more sophisticated utensil than the saucer edge my mother used to tenderize. I remortgaged the house and bought a Compulsive Chef meat hammer. The head promptly flew off, barely missing Hubby. Since then, he wears a helmet to survive home cooking.

Image by NickyPe from Pixabay.

As Hubby and other down-to-earth types take cover, they wonder why God in His wisdom did not place all us antimatter marvels on our own planet. What? Leave us alone, with no one to close Ziploc® bags? Also, life on Planet Proficient would bore them to death.

Human beings need a little crazy. I derive mine from inanimate objects.

Hubby gets his from living with me.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Do any inanimate objects drive you nuts?