Lee Pitts
Morrow Bay, Calif.

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October 8, 2013
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Lee Pitts: It’s the Pitts 10-7-13

OK people, whoever is playing all these sneaky little practical jokes on me I wish they’d stop it.

Whoever it was that emptied the feed sacks of their original contents and filled them with concrete so they’d be heavier, ha ha, very funny. And when I went to get on a horse I noticed that someone must have shortened my stirrup leathers, or the horse had a recent growth spurt, because I could hardly get on. Then there were all those candles on my last birthday cake, the kind that you blow on and they stay lit, even though everyone insisted they weren’t those kind of candles. They all said that I was just too old and out of breath and everyone else could easily blow them out, but I’m not buying it. I’m not that old, I’m only, let’s see, 61-YEARS-OLD. HOLY COW!

Just last week I went to get up in my friend ReRide’s pickup that I’ve ridden in a thousand times and I immediately noticed it was much harder to get into than usual. “What did you do ReRide, spend a lot of foolish money getting your truck raised like all the teenagers are doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” ReRide insisted, but I know better. People are just messing with my mind and I’m tired of it.

I know my wife is toying with me. “Why did you turn down the volume on the radio in the car,” I asked. “And I can barely see out of the windows they’re so dirty.”

“I didn’t touch the volume on the radio and the windows are clean,” she insisted. “You’re just getting hard of hearing and blind. Besides, if you’d have helped me wash the car instead of taking a morning nap you’d know the windows are squeaky clean.”

“I can’t help it. I’m just tired from all these games you’re playing with me. Real tired. Either it’s all the preservatives in food now days, or something you’re spiking my food with, that make me want to take a nap right after I just got up.”

Just the other day I went to Farm Supply and could barely get in the front door. “OK, very funny guys,” I told the two fellas at the irrigation counter. “Who put a stiffer spring on the front door? I could barely open it.”

They looked at each other as if they didn’t know what I was talking about.

Then the other day I was driving on a road I normally drive 65 miles per hour on and I looked in my mirror and saw at least 10 cars backed up behind me. Imagine my surprise when I looked down at the speedometer and it said 45 mph! I made a mental note to get the engine and speedometer checked because one of them isn’t working.

My wife and I enjoy our three meals together every day as we make chit chat and read newspapers and magazines. I especially enjoy reading real estate ads and dream about owning one or two of the 40 million dollar ranches for sale. I was reading one such ad when I stopped and asked my wife, “Have you ever heard of a manure tree?”

“What are you talking about?” she said, stopping work on her Sudoku puzzle.

“It says in this classified ad that this ranch comes with a 6,000 square foot house, 20,000 acres of grazing land and 400 acres of manure trees. I grew up in what was the citrus capital of the world, spent my youth picking lemons, oranges, grapefruit, tangerines and avocados and my hands were black from husking walnuts. I thought I knew of every kind of tree there is, but I’ve never heard of manure trees.”

“Let me see that paper.” She read the ad and said, “You big dummy, it says ‘mature trees’ not manure trees. Mature as in old, you know, what you are. Not to suggest that you’re not also full of manure.”

“Let me see that,” I said as I ripped the paper from her feeble hands. “OK, so you changed the “n” to a “t” when I wasn’t looking just to make me think I’m losing my mind. Very funny. But you can’t fool me. And I’ll have you know that I’m not “mature.”

My wife just laughed and mumbled, “You can say that again.” ❖


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The Fence Post Updated Oct 17, 2013 09:31AM Published Oct 28, 2013 01:50PM Copyright 2013 The Fence Post. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.