In the duopoly where I live, the responsibility for operating the ancient heavy machinery belongs to The Artist. My own role is that of tinkerer, moral support, water carrying and offering unnecessary opinions. Today, for reasons I am uncertain of, roles were reversed. And I should explain that where I live there are some cruel slopes, sharp turns, and entirely possible for a day dreaming heavy machinery operator to suddenly find themselves thousands of yards away in a rock bottom creek, where cries for help will never, ever be heard.
Proud of my burden, some very fine looking dark soil for the compost pile that
I'd gleaned from an attempt to level the road in anticipation of either five
inches of rain, several feet of snow and sleet, or inches of ice, I lost
concentration and attempted a gear change while going up a hill.
The machine, which The Artist calls her Little Red Hen, became obviously
distressed and decided to suddenly start going backwards, at very high speed.
And it is actually true that just before a person cries for help they are
subject to visions, some of which are not in the least soothing.