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Cheryl Hughes: Smarty Pants

The last time we visited Garey’s mom, Aggie, in Corner, Alabama, I was listening once more to the conversation between Garey and Aggie about Aggie’s pecan trees.  I have been a passive listener to this conversation for at least the last twenty-four years—that’s how long Garey’s dad has been gone.  This time, however, I didn’t sit quietly by.

 

                “My pecan trees have never had any decent pecans on them,” Aggie said, for the twenty-fourth year in a row. 

                “I can tell you why that is,” Garey said.  “First of all…”

                “No,” I said, stopping him in mid-sentence, “I will tell you why. First of all, the trees are planted too close to the other trees in the yard, those trees produce too much shade, and pecan trees need sunlight.  Secondly, the trees were never sprayed, and the pecans have worm infestations, which keep occurring year after year, because the pecans fall to the ground then the worms burrow out of the pecans and into the ground, causing the whole cycle to begin again the next year.”

                There was complete silence in the room for about thirty seconds.  I think the two of them were stunned that I knew so much about pecans, my being born and raised in a state north of Alabama, and all.  The thing is, you could be born and raised in Siberia, and still be able to recite information you’ve heard every couple of months for twenty-four years.

                I was being a complete smarty pants and I knew it.  I felt bad about it later, as I lay on the guest room bed reading.  My guilt was short-lived, however, as Garey and Aggie began another conversation in the adjoining room.  It involved how much Aggie’s dog does or doesn’t eat.   I’ve listened to this same conversation for years, as well; albeit the names of the dogs have changed.

                Aggie usually begins the conversation by saying, “I don’t know why Angel won’t eat her dog food.  She always wants what I’m eating.”

                To which Garey replies, “She’ll eat when she gets hungry.”

                To which Aggie replies, “If it’s something she doesn’t like she won’t eat it.  You can leave it in her bowl for two days, and she still won’t eat it.”

                It is at this point that Aggie recites all the things Angel won’t eat.  I entertain myself in the next room by reciting the foods quietly to myself before Aggie names them.  They include, but are not limited to: gravy, biscuits, eggs, salmon patties, and tuna.  The deal is, Angel, like Fancy before her, is an overweight Sheltie.  She could survive for two weeks on the fat reserves she has built up.  Garey has told Aggie as much, many times before.

                On this particular trip, Garey told Aggie beforehand to withhold food from Angel for two meals prior to our arrival, in order for him to be able to give Angel a chew for fleas and ticks.  Aggie did as Garey requested, because she had a flea infestation once before with Fancy, and she was in no mood to repeat the steps required to rid her house of the pesky little boogers.

                After giving Angel the chew in a hotdog—she wolfed it right down and would probably have done so even in a salmon patty, considering she had skipped a couple of meals—Garey surprised me with some completely new information.   He began to tell Aggie about the life cycle of the flea.

                “According to the flea literature I picked up at the Vet’s office,” he began (Flea literature…you can file that under THIS ACTUALLY EXISTS), “the flea has four stages of development: Egg, larvae, pupa, adult.  When the flea is in the pupa stage, it is nearly impossible to kill.  That’s why they’re so hard to get rid of.  You have to keep spraying in order to catch them in one of the other stages.”

                I had no idea!  I guess this means Garey is the new Smarty Pants.

               

               

                 

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