You ever feel like you’re living in some kind of alternate reality?
My son came home from work (My son…work… See, right there, reality is already sliding into skiwhompus proportions.) this past Wednesday with the news that while he was greasing the backhoe, a bomb blast rocked his world. I wasn’t sure what seemed more wrong with that picture–my son greasing a backhoe, as opposed to, say, a muffin tin–or the fact that at 7 a.m. in the morning, in a tiny little town in central Washington, a WWII bomb was detonated.
Apparently it isn’t terribly uncommon for shed workers to find these devices coming in with the potatoes from the fields, or for farmers to dig them up and use them for lawn ornaments, not realizing their potential.
Nor is it, apparently, much of a stretch to imagine a sixteen year old employee driving your backhoe into a building; his boss thought maybe that explained the shockwave he felt inside.
My son drives backhoes?
Not to mention large trucks with heavily loaded trailers, and dump trucks. Through the middle of Moses Lake. Yeah.
Ah, well. You have to learn behind the wheel of something, I suppose.
Better one of those beasts than my own fragile, fiberglass plaything.
Holy smokes! It felt like a backhoe just hit my house. Oh wait. That’s… water? Ice? What the heck?
Since when do gale force hurricanes visit the desert?