Oh give me a home, in some place like Rome, where Tom-Ass and such like do not call; where I can lie in bed, and not see sky overhead; and the roof isn’t likely to fall.
Tony Greene, good friend, weather expert: “Don’t worry, man. Nothing will happen.”
Ted Hoad, brother, weather expert: “I’m very worried. Tomas is going to pass south but some idiot might go and cancel Brighton Farmers’ Market.”
By far the most enlightening book on home selection is The Three Little Pigs. You may recall the story: three brother pigs Bricky, Sticky and Straw decide nto build houses.
Straw builds his with straw and within the hour he is pictured happily relaxing outside, chewing on a blade of grass. Sticky used sticks and soon he too is finished.
Bricky would have none of that.
“Y’all should listen to Judy Thomas. The wolf might come!” So he sweats away with wheelbarrows and bricks, ladder and tools, trowel and cement. And several pages later his fancy house is done.
Next day, the wolf does come. And he huffs and he puffs and blows Straw’s house down! Straw runs over by Sticky, but, same thing.
They then both run over by Bricky where they are safe. The wolf tries to get in via the chimney, falls into a kettle of boiling water and gets made into soup. Or something. Finally they all build brick houses and live happily ever after!
The TL Pigs is called a fairy tale for good reason.
It would never happen. In real life, Sticky and Straw might have built cheap shanties. But chances are Bricky’s down-payment money would be stolen by his lawyer, he’d be heavily indebted to the bank for life, ripped off by contractors, pay thousands for insurance and end up with hernia and heart problems trying to do it all himself.
He would then get snagged by a nagging wife who would make him work on lawns and gardens, buy expensive appliances and ornaments, host parties for her friends. Even as he listens with envy to Sticky and Straw’s graphic accounts of wet swimsuits they’d seen at Harbour Lights.
“Brick, you wouldn’t believe that young female porker. Eighteen perfect breasts!”
You see, the TL Pigs was written by the builders, lawyers, bankers and insurance boys who control our minds. They want us to be suckered into a materialistic European lifestyle.
I stick to my house recommendations: build a cheap house; have a well-fortified container for your few necessary possessions; if a hurricane comes, go stay somewhere secure; let the roof blow off if it will; instead of insurance, spend your money on roof sheets and spare lumber. Had I put the money I’ve paid in insurance into sheets, I could re-roof Kensington Oval and most of the Bronx. Luckily I have enough on hand to repair my house.
More on that later, for . . . .
The night broke clear with a chilly air, as Bim settled down to bed. We slept a sleep both sweet and deep, well assured there was nothing to dread. But in the “wee wee” hours of the morning, as the Nation’s Tim would write, Tomas huffed and puffed like the proverbial wolf, and Tim’s “wee wee” was aptly right.
Bruggadung! Braggadax! Armygeddon reach! Bare debris on the lawn. The wife peeped out in time to shout: “O spite, the big shed gone!”
We watched and prayed to God for aid, hoping “this too shall pass”; but you couldn’t stuff a pinch of snuff, up poor Lowdown’s . . . !”
The crack of dawn, O much-sought crack, will bring relief, I hissed. T’was not to be, Tomas could now see, what previously he’d missed. The gallery roof I tried to tie, with rope and wire in vain, Tom took it off with two hip roofs, and let in all the rain.
In Stygian black, the wife did tack, for toilet to sit and do, but rose forthwith with rapid lift, muttering, “Sorry, I sat on you!” I smiled and left her in the dark, bereft of torch or candle; for fumbling she had missed her mark, and straddled the toilet plunger handle!
Friends, we have weathered a major storm, let us gird now our loins, and get this country back to work, as our beloved Sir Clifford H enjoins.
• Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.
