Coonridge Digest: Small town terrorism at its most terrifyin’

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

One in two billion seems a safe enough set of odds but when you feel a lump in the bottom of an envelope statistics seem of little comfort.

Accordin’ to the number of pieces of mail that crisscross the universe every day, the experts say that your chances of gettin’ a dangerous substance from Aunt Lucy in Dubuque is about one in two billion. (I have several other aunts for whom the statistic is somewhat higher but no one’s calculated the odds on fruitcakes.) I guess the number jugglers probably have it right. It’s still safer to fly than to drive, and visitin’ a large city is still comparable to a walk through your local park. However, these are all big city statistics. I’ve yet to see the research on small town terrorism.

Like…well, like The Nighttime Combine. Before my fellow farmers get unhinged, let me say that I know a John Deere combine is a mighty work of American ingenuity and that it’s gotta move from one field to another by some device other than an act of God. But when you come toodlin’ over a slight rise in the road after nightfall and the specter of one of these bushel-bustin’ behemoths stares you right in the windshield, you wonder if maybe your chances with a highjacker might be more tolerable.

You can’t head for the ditch because Big Johnny’s got his grain head there too. There’s nothin’ left but to slam on your brakes and hope he raises his hydraulics just enough to let you pass under…unpicked.

Our local financial institution, The First National Gotcha of Coonridge, recently installed its first ATM machine. This sounds like progress but it’s merely a masquerade for terrorism. No airborne terrorist could match the number of injuries this little beauty has racked up on the Ridge. Some genius (we suspect the local chiropractor) installed the mechanized bill belcher with a two-foot curb. No matter how close you pull up, no matter how you scrape the sides of your whitewalls, and no matter what long-armed spider monkey you happen to have brought along with you, you can’t reach the machine. The thing’s in sight of our house and Herb and me have spent many an entertainin’ summer evenin’ on our front porch just watch the local contortions.

It’s an optical illusion of the most painful sort. As you pull up to the thing it looks possible…until you realize it ain’t. I have personally seen people hang their entire torso out of the car, tail bobbin’ in the air, in a futile attempt to reach the buttons. Roneta Henry always throws on her flowered print housecoat to run up town and get cash. From our rear point of view she looks like a small hot air balloon bobbin’ up and down tryin’ to get off the ground. I sit in our porch swing silently cheerin’ her on, hopin’ to God she makes it before she spills out onto the concrete.

Just after they installed the machine I went into the bank to withdraw some cash. I was told politely, "Why Freida, you can get it from our ATM!" So I tried. And tried again. It was then that I sniffed a rat in the vault and allowed as how the bank’s outdoor security camera was recordin’ some of the choicest footage (or more accurately, "rear-age") that our little burg had ever seen. I’d noticed that the local bank board’s meetings were lastin’ longer than usual, then it hit me. They’re watchin’ the tapes! Small town terrorism at its most terrifyin’!

Some small-town terrorists come in pint-sized packages. In a week’s time I was attacked by the Girl Scouts, the Cub Scouts, the PTA, PTO, Little League, Fifth-Grade Science Club, and two errant Methodists who didn’t seem to belong to anybody. I’ve devoted an entire shelf in my kitchen to peanuts, cookies, cheese balls, pizza fixin’s, holiday candles, and Christmas wrappin’ paper that I don’t remember orderin’.

Sometimes I imagine the conversations the little shysters have as they approach my door: "Here’s Freida’s place. She’s an old coot who’s lost her mind anyway. We can convince she ordered it and she’ll pay for it." And they’re always right. Some of these little radicals are pretty cute and about half of ‘em claim to be related to me somehow.

If we had known how to turn it in to the insurance company, Herb would have new dentures. One night near the end of the summer we’d gone to bed and Herbie had put his teeth to soak. Sometime after Jay Leno’s monologue a pickup came down the street belchin’ bass notes from its boosted boomers and Herb’s molars took a nosedive onto the kitchen floor. The uppers cracked in half and the lowers did a double flip off the toilet paper dispenser and right into the commode. Herb insisted we collect on the household insurance but I just couldn’t bring myself to discuss small town terrorism with our adjuster. There are some things beyond patriotism.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.