Farmer H Philosophizes On Physics

Saturday morning, I awoke to find Farmer H buried under the quilt my grandma stitched for our marriage bed.

I knew there was a reason my feet were hanging out. Well, the main reason being that I want them to hang out, so I don't get foot cramps during the night from the weight of a heavy freakin' quilt pressing down upon them. But normally, the quilt is there just in case I want to cover my feet. Not so Saturday morning. I did, however, have a plethora of quilt yardage with which to make myself a burka, a turban, a cowl-neck quilt sweater, a comfy shawl, an executioner's hood (though in white), a poncho, and a surgical drape suited for stitching a large facial gash. My feet, on the other hand, were experiencing a bout of high-water quilt-positioning.

Oh, yes. We left Farmer H buried under the quilt. If you visit the Mansion regularly, you might remember that Farmer H is attached to his breather all night. Some may call it a CPAP machine, but to me, it will always be a breather. Though I am somewhat ignorant of the workings of the breather, I am pretty sure that being buried under a quilt is not a condition desired for efficient operation.

I pulled back the quilt and exposed the giant noggin of Farmer H. He sputtered and twitched and blinked like a mole dug up by hounds in the front yard. "What are you doing?" I think that's what he said. He sounded more like Charlie Brown's teacher, what with that clear muzzle of the breather strapped across his nose and mouth. I told him that he needed to keep his head out. Then I left him there in bed while I went about my Saturday morning chores.

When I came back to get towels from the bathroom, there was Farmer H, again buried under the quilt. I rescued him once more. Criminy! I'm responsible for him, you see, having saved his life already the first time. He mouthed me in his muffled way, and flopped over so as not to see the sight of his life-saver. I hoofed it back to the laundry room and threw in the towels. You can expose Farmer H to oxygen, but you can't make him breathe.

After folding socks, boys' underwear, and washcloths, and delegating The Pony to put them away, I was joined by Farmer H in the living room. He commenced a lecture for our benefit, on the finer points of operation of his breather. How it was a pressurized system. That oxygen was forced into his orifices through that mask, no matter what conditions were around his head. Farmer H copped a little attitude about my rescue. In his opinion, I should have left him alone. He does that all the time, seals himself under the quilt. And he is fine. The oxygen comes from that little machine that pumps it through the hose into the mask. Don't I have any concept of what a pressurized system is all about? I should. Because I'm a science teacher. It doesn't matter what is on the outside of his head, because the oxygen doesn't come from there.

In my defense, I mounted a counter-argument. First of all, I asked Farmer H how his carbon dioxide got out of the mask. And if he could take that pressurized system anywhere and still receive his precious oxygen. Because he might as well become the first man to go deep-sea diving with a CPAP mask, or perhaps he could do a space walk from the International Space Station to tout the oxygen-pumping capabilities of that unbelievably efficient CPAP muzzle.

And furthermore, I inquired as to whether Farmer H understood the concept of soup being a liquid, and as such, an entity that should NOT be piled to three times the height of the soup bowl.

To which Farmer H rebutted: "That depends on how solid the liquid is."