Saturday, October 2, 2010

Oh Why, Oh Why - My dad and the Fly

We Philpots come from a long line of hicks.  Topics like chopping wood are not as foreign to us as some would think.  In fact, I can chop and stack a mean pile of logs.  Yes.  Too bad that can't go on a resume or even attract a decent boyfriend.

Since my dad grew up on a Christmas tree farm before moving to LA later in life with a whole "fresh off the farm" vibe, I am a first generation non-hick. 

Let me tell ya, that ain't so easy. I have to establish what is "in" and "hip" and explain to my dad things like  lol does not in fact mean, "Lots of love" and that Facebook is nothing like the Farmers Almanac.  It soon became evident that you can't completely take the "country" out a boy when my dad proceeded to cut down all of the palm trees in the front yard because quote, "trees that are that skinny and serve no purpose don't deserve to take up my soil." 

I am pretty sure if he could have, we would have made a log cabin with those palm trees and stuffed the cracks with oil rags in the winter to insolate it.  If you doubt me, both his brother AND sister made their own log cabins.  For real. 

Today, a bunch of flies flew into our house.  No big deal.  At least, to non-hicks that's no big deal.  However, those flies came into a "hick" house, otherwise known as the "death" house (to vermin at least).  We don't mess with Raid like sissy city-slickers.  Nope.  We hunt.  I feel so sorry for those unsuspecting flies who were just seeking a little santuary from the muggy weather outside.

At the first sighting of these "vermin," my dad grabbed a dish towel.  Now, I am actually very proud of him because normally he tries to catch them with his hands first.  Have you ever seen a grown man, with a Master's degree, chase a 10-millimeter length fruit fly, frantically clapping in the air?  Let's just say, we don't need T.V. in our house.

My mother shadowed him and yelled useful encouragements like, "It went over there, it went over there!!!"  He would snap the towel and she would jump up and down and ask excitedly, "didja get it???"  If he did in fact "get it" she would exclaim, "ew, gross, throw it away!!" 

You would think that throwing away the dead curled-up bodies would be just standard protocol, but in a "hick" house sometimes the carcasses are left wherever they went down.  Oh yes, it's gross.  But I suspect that it's my dad's way of displaying his mighty hunts.  Like mounting deer heads...but with flies. you know why my friends never come over to my house. 

Oh and after a dad hacks a luggie.  Yep. 

There was a concentration of these flies in the kitchen, understandably as that is where the food is.  Well, that became ground-zero.  My dad snapped and flicked and pounced on the buzzing enemy with the vigor of a combat sergeant. 

One fly escaped to our walk-in pantry. My dad saw this opportunity, ran into the pantry (armed to the teeth with TWO towels) and screamed at my mom to slid the pantry door shut (so as to trap the enemy). 

This was the exciting moment, everyone.  The old pantry door is NEVER used. Ever.  The pantry door was also never made to be slide across it's rusty, dirty tracks in the manner that a frantic mom a.k.a knight would heave close the heavy gates of a helm under attack. 

But, oh she tried. 

The pantry door balked halfway across and there was much excited pushing and pulling from BOTH my parents as they tried to trap this tiny, little fly.  Eventually, the door did reluctantly slide close, locking my dad and the fly in to duke it out. 

My mom and I stood outside the pantry and begged for battle updates as we heard towel swooshes and snaps.  Finally, my dad, as happy as a boy who had just come back from his first coon hunt, exclaimed proudly, "I got it!!"  He came out, holding his "trophy" and scanned the horizon for any other buggers.  After the coast was proclaimed clear, life slowly faded back to a rather diluted form of hickness.  Or at least, we made him wash his hands after holding the fly.

We are such hicks. Like, really.  I am surprised we don't eat more possum stew...that my great-grandma did actually make. 

I just wish we could find some Texas T, some black gold.  :)

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