Thursday, June 11, 2015

Cloudy and some rain. The rain comes as light showers  of short duration. Although . . . I was out admiring the calves and feeding range cubes as a treat when the rain spit a thirty second icy hard water shower.

Someone up there has it out for me, I just know it.

Today’s village building will be the closed school. The date above the gym/auditorium/whatever, is older than the date of the grocery store’s 1886 date. The rest of the school is newer by a hundred years.


I’m not finding the picture of the old building, unfortunately, but the story I wish to tell may be represented by what we see here.

The low building to the rear is the newer class rooms that were broken into by the near neighbors brother and friends and from which the near neighbor received the porch light. All of which I’ve written of before.

Once the school was sold to a buyer from Texas, it became a question of what is he going to do with it?

One problem that remains unsolved, though it grips the village hierarchy is that tall grass. The absentee owner doesn’t pay much attention to it, the village fathers knash their teeth over it. It is a fire hazard and the village has threatened to mow it once a month, May through Sept at sixty-five dollars a pop. The owner makes promises and then stays away when they are broken.

One of the village elders asked the owner what he was planning, after seeing contractors in the building, doing something. The owner said that he was going to fix up the interior and then offer the building to rent to the federal government as quarters for the illegal Mexicans kids the government was sending all over the place.

That news got out, of course; and the village went quite ballistic.

When a Kansan gets mad, it is usually quietly. They seethe. Quiet talks on the church walkways, casual mentions over coffee, maybe a “did you hear?” type of thing. Consensus is usually joined quickly.

We haven’t a Mexican housing unit in the village. The old school sits empty and the graveled playground is parking space for the school buses, while the central school is sixteen miles away where the repair shop for the buses is.

The drivers of those buses are not residents of the village. This is just a parking place for the vehicles.

It will be interesting to see what happens to that grass this summer.


From the reaches,

Ten Whiskey 

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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