finger in his face. “You don’t have to stage the trucks in my front yard!”
His innocent face turned smug. “Where would you suggest they park?”
“In the damn vineyard!”
“But Kate, I knew you wouldn’t want these diesel-belching trucks polluting your pristine organic vines.” He smiled at me.
So, this was how it was going to be. I glared at him for a full 10 seconds before I realized I hadn’t even brushed my hair—which on some mornings had a tendency to look like I’d been through a carwash without a car—before I stormed out of the house like hurricane Kate. I gritted my teeth, turned on my heel and stomped back to the house. I would just have to repair the lawn after the harvest. No big deal.
I pulled on some blue jeans and a T-shirt and headed up to the barn to feed the horses. I sensed something was amiss the second I stepped into the breezeway. There in the corner was my brand new raccoon-proof cat-food container, with the plastic hinges chewed in half and the door hanging by the metal snap I’d secured it closed with. It was lying on its side and all that remained was a few handfuls of cat food. I kicked the container out of the barn, where it banged against the fence and startled Emlie. She jumped two feet in the air then stuck her tail straight up and took off at a gallop toward the lower pasture. Buster took off after her even though the flying cat-food container didn’t seem to bother him at all.
As I walked out of the barn to pick up after my temper tantrum, I realized the real reason Emlie and Buster had high-tailed it to the other field. A pair of handsome Clydesdales pulling a large buckboard pranced down the road toward my driveway. They were dark bays with wide matching blazes on their faces. Someone had gone to the painstaking trouble to braid their manes and tails as if they were going to the Rose Parade. Their huge feet were covered with bright white “feathers” which was really silky hair that grew thick around their lower legs. The man driving the team stopped them in front of my house and skillfully maneuvered the rig around the corner and through the gate while I held my breath.
Andy saw me watching, and he waved. “No exhaust in the vineyard!” he hollered, then smiled innocently, flashing those dimples at me.
There’s a word for people like Andy Carmichael, but I’ll be damned if I can come up with it.
I carried the container back in the barn and removed the snap, poured the remaining cat food into the cat’s bowls, then I threw the box in the big trash barrel and slammed the lid down.
After breakfast and a shower, I powered up my computer to start digging into the rest of the Zinfandel enigma. Through a process of elimination, I would rule out all the valid records and hopefully be left with a pile small enough to shake out a common denominator.
By mid-morning, I hadn’t eliminated even one percent of the data. My eyes were crossed and my stomach was growling, so I took a snack break.
The grape harvesting was going slow, as one would expect when using draft horses to transport the grapes from the vineyard to the trucks. I hoped that Andy would stop this nonsense tomorrow and bring in the normal tractors to finish the job.
In the meantime I needed to make another trip to Fisco. This time I bought a large Rubbermaid container designed to hold tools. The sales clerk assured me that a gorilla couldn’t get the thing opened unless he had opposable thumbs, which of course they do, but I understood his meaning and took it, along with more cat food. My Visa balance was racking up quicker than I liked, but thankfully the grapes were on their way to the winery and soon, the first of three grape payments would be on its way to me.
While in town, I stopped at Big Five to pick up my new shotgun and a box of shells. The thing was heavier than I remembered. I put it in the trunk of my car and headed
His innocent face turned smug. “Where would you suggest they park?”
“In the damn vineyard!”
“But Kate, I knew you wouldn’t want these diesel-belching trucks polluting your pristine organic vines.” He smiled at me.
So, this was how it was going to be. I glared at him for a full 10 seconds before I realized I hadn’t even brushed my hair—which on some mornings had a tendency to look like I’d been through a carwash without a car—before I stormed out of the house like hurricane Kate. I gritted my teeth, turned on my heel and stomped back to the house. I would just have to repair the lawn after the harvest. No big deal.
I pulled on some blue jeans and a T-shirt and headed up to the barn to feed the horses. I sensed something was amiss the second I stepped into the breezeway. There in the corner was my brand new raccoon-proof cat-food container, with the plastic hinges chewed in half and the door hanging by the metal snap I’d secured it closed with. It was lying on its side and all that remained was a few handfuls of cat food. I kicked the container out of the barn, where it banged against the fence and startled Emlie. She jumped two feet in the air then stuck her tail straight up and took off at a gallop toward the lower pasture. Buster took off after her even though the flying cat-food container didn’t seem to bother him at all.
As I walked out of the barn to pick up after my temper tantrum, I realized the real reason Emlie and Buster had high-tailed it to the other field. A pair of handsome Clydesdales pulling a large buckboard pranced down the road toward my driveway. They were dark bays with wide matching blazes on their faces. Someone had gone to the painstaking trouble to braid their manes and tails as if they were going to the Rose Parade. Their huge feet were covered with bright white “feathers” which was really silky hair that grew thick around their lower legs. The man driving the team stopped them in front of my house and skillfully maneuvered the rig around the corner and through the gate while I held my breath.
Andy saw me watching, and he waved. “No exhaust in the vineyard!” he hollered, then smiled innocently, flashing those dimples at me.
There’s a word for people like Andy Carmichael, but I’ll be damned if I can come up with it.
I carried the container back in the barn and removed the snap, poured the remaining cat food into the cat’s bowls, then I threw the box in the big trash barrel and slammed the lid down.
After breakfast and a shower, I powered up my computer to start digging into the rest of the Zinfandel enigma. Through a process of elimination, I would rule out all the valid records and hopefully be left with a pile small enough to shake out a common denominator.
By mid-morning, I hadn’t eliminated even one percent of the data. My eyes were crossed and my stomach was growling, so I took a snack break.
The grape harvesting was going slow, as one would expect when using draft horses to transport the grapes from the vineyard to the trucks. I hoped that Andy would stop this nonsense tomorrow and bring in the normal tractors to finish the job.
In the meantime I needed to make another trip to Fisco. This time I bought a large Rubbermaid container designed to hold tools. The sales clerk assured me that a gorilla couldn’t get the thing opened unless he had opposable thumbs, which of course they do, but I understood his meaning and took it, along with more cat food. My Visa balance was racking up quicker than I liked, but thankfully the grapes were on their way to the winery and soon, the first of three grape payments would be on its way to me.
While in town, I stopped at Big Five to pick up my new shotgun and a box of shells. The thing was heavier than I remembered. I put it in the trunk of my car and headed
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