We had a downpour at the Mansion this morning. A deluge that cut off our Dish Network (thanks, cable companies, for deeming us so far out in the boondocks that we will never experience the joys of cable TV). Along with the drenching came lightning and thunder. We could actually hear the CRACK upon the flash. One minute, it was in front of the Mansion, the next it was in the backyard. Following the CRACKs were thunderous rumblings. They made the Mansion vibrate. It was like our own little private earthquake. With aftershocks.
After about an hour of no TV, our signal was acquired. Too late for the hen party that calls itself Hot Topics on The View. The boys and I fiddled and faddled, I called the outrageously rude dentist's office, and the polite but inefficient Guardian dental insurance representatives, finished one book and started another, refereed a slugfest that broke out between #1 and The Pony, answered a call commanding me to a repeat mammogram on Friday, played a telephone game of that no-good cheating WordPops, wrote out four checks for bills (though withholding the disputed dental claim), and decided to go to town.
The #1 son ran to T-Hoe in case I was about to ask him to carry something or turn off lights or lock the door. He's like a government employee when it comes to avoiding work. The Pony stayed to assist me, asking before closing the door, "Are you sure you have your keys?" He will be the one to push me around with my oxygen tank and clip my toenails in my old age. Upon entering the garage, I flipped the switch to open the garage door behind T-Hoe. There was a clanking and grinding extravaganza before the door chugged its way to the top of Mount Garage Ceiling.
"What was THAT?"
The Pony shrugged his shoulders and looked frightened. #1 jumped out of the car and went to investigate. I walked around to the driver's door and looked back.
There was a little red wagon sitting behind T-Hoe's rear tire. #1 picked it up. "Hmpf." He hung it back on the wall, between the 2 x 4 studs, clamping its black metal handle between a clampy thingamabobber, so it hung down in the between-the-studs space. It's been there for years. Many years. I can't remember the last time we used that itty bitty wagon. I don't even think it's a Radio Flyer. It's not quite big enough to haul Tank the beagle around in. A fat cat might be as far as that little wagon could be counted on to pull its weight. Good thing I always open the garage door before getting inside T-Hoe. Not that I'm a genius or anything. It's just that my garage door opener works sporadically.
I'm guessing that the rumbling thunder vibrated that little red wagon right off the wall. Though how it landed on its wheels and rolled over four feet to the back of T-Hoe is still a mystery.