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FUNNYBONE

What did the baby lightbulb tell the mama lightbulb?"

"I love you watts and watts."
Marsha Thompson, Geneseo

Show me the way to go home: An 80-year-old man sat crying his eyes out on a park bench. "What's the trouble, mister?" a cop asked.

"I have a 27-year-old wife at home," the man sobbed. "She's beautiful; she's a gourmet cook, and she's madly in love with me." "So, what's the problem?" "I can't remember where I live!"
John A. Dekas, submitted by H. Kinzinger, Oilman

The defense attorney was bearing down hard. "You say," he sneered, "that my client came at you with a broken bottle in his hand, but didn't YOU have something in YOUR hand?"

"Yes," said the battered plaintiff, "HIS WIFE. Charming, of course, but not much good in a fight."
Mrs. James L. Jones, Marion

The church had a new preacher. The poorest cook in the church sent him a pie. It wasn't edible and was thrown in the garbage. The preacher's wife said, "Call her and thank her for the pie." He called and told her how good of her it was to send the pie and thanked her.

She said, "How did you like it?" That stumped him; when he got his breath, he said, "I'll say one thing, a pie like yours doesn't last very long around here."
Iva Davis, Makanda

Is there a joke in YOUR family (that's proper for a family magazine)? Illinois Country Living pays $5.00 for each joke chosen for Illinois Funnybone. Send your humorous story to Illinois Funnybone, P.O. Box 3787, Springfield, IL 62708-3787.

Chasing parts

by Susan Wildemuth

Husband is a farmer and that makes me, a city-raised, taxicab-riding, never-met-a-mall-I-didn't-like farmer by association. I hold many prestigious titles in our farming operation that I'm sure all you women out there are not going to be very jealous of. I'm Supervisor in Charge of Mowing, and, for the record, that's both the front and back yards. Director of Dish Washing is a position I've held since day one of our marriage. I tried to pawn off, I mean pass off, this job to the next generation, but somehow I haven't been able to find any takers. As Manager of Meals my specific field of expertise is fast food. That's anything that I can get on the table in the time it takes the farmer to walk in the back door, wash his hands, take a seat at the kitchen table and say those three little words that put me in that special mood, "What's to eat?"

Like most farm women with growing families, my job titles really are too numerous to mention here, but of all the chores I've inherited over the years the one I should be canonized for is chasing parts. For those of you out there who don't understand what "chasing parts" means in the agricultural industry, imagine for a moment it's harvesting time. Three previous breakdowns have put the men behind about four day's worth of work. An Indian summer also has hit the farm, the air-conditioning in the combine (which never worked too well to begin with) gives out, and the temperature at 9 a.m. is 98 degrees in the shade— with a heat index of 105.

To avoid heat exhaustion, Grandpa's working the combine with the door open. Husband is hauling in the first of three tractor-pulled, grain-filled wagons. Two grain trucks, whose interiors are hotter than any of Madonna's videos, are waiting in the wings for their turn to go to town with their load. Murphy's Law prevails here and something breaks down on the tractor they use to pull the grain wagons.

Husband stops at the house, tells me he's going to call the Parts Place to order a part, and he'd like me to go and get it. The conversation that follows goes something like this:

"Isn't there anyone else you can send besides me?"

"You can handle this. After all it's not the first time you've had to go."

"What do I do if they need more information than I can give them?"

Husband answers calmly, "They won't. I have the part number right here, so don't worry."

"But they always ask questions that I don't know the answer to."

In an obvious marital ploy, used to extract pity, my overworked husband wipes his forehead, "Do you know it's 98 degrees out there, the heat index is 105, and we're four days behind?"

"All right," I reply with my shoulder sagging in defeat. "I'll go if you write down every single detail I need to know to get this part. Leave nothing out."

Husband writes the note, calls the Parts Place, and gives me a smile, "Gotta go."

The back door slams shut, eerily reverberating through the whole house. Our son, BC, closes the book he is reading and looks up at me with something akin to pity and asks, "Something break down?"

"Tractor."

"You have to go to the Parts Place, don't you?"

I swallowed hard, fighting back the rising panic, "Uh huh."

"Do I have to go?"

"Would you like to stay with Dad? It's 98 degrees out there with a heat index of 105."

"I know and they're four days behind. I'll go with you but I won't like it."

For me and some farm women I've talked to, entering the Parts

20 ILLINOIS COUNTRY LIVING AUGUST 1997


Place is like a trip through the Twilight Zone. There is this guy standing at the counter who looks suspiciously like Rod Serling on Prozac. In front of him are two guys drinking coffee, the UPS man with a dolly full of boxes, and a long counter with several open books. Behind him, partially hidden by a partition, is the place they store all those mysterious parts. They have parts everywhere—parts on shelves, on the floor, hanging from the ceiling. I mean, you wan a farm part? This is the place to go for it!

BC and I open the door and the bell sounds our arrival. Everyone in the whole room turns and looks at you. This is one of those few times in your life that you have everyone's undivided attention; I wish ringing a bell worked on husbands and kids. I approach Rod Serling, tell him my name and hand him my husband's detailed note.

Rod asks, "What is the make, model number and year of your tractor, Mrs. Wildemuth?"

"It should be in the note."

"I'm afraid it isn't"

"Is it important to know that?"

"Very."

My son comes to the rescue with the answer and my breathing returns to normal. Rod leafs through his book and then goes in search of the part. He returns with a large box and three different size bolts. "Which size bolt do you think he'll want?"

"I don't suppose that's in the note?"

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, it isn't."

My heart starts pounding rapidly, and I'm halfway through a hot flash when I ask the Part Man, "Do you know it's 98 degrees outside with a heat index of 105?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Now will that be 3/16, 1/8, or 1/4?"

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"What size bolt do you think your husband will need?"

"Give me all three and I'll return the ones he doesn't use."

"But there's a restocking charge."

"It's okay. Give me all three, I don't want to take any chances."

He smiles at me knowingly, "Running a little behind at home?"

"Four days." I answered, my hands shaking as I finish writing him a check for the part.

"Mrs. Wildemuth?"

Fearing he's going to ask me another farm part question I don't know the answer to, I yell, "What?"

"Have a nice day," he answers with a pleasant smile.

I take the part home, set it on the kitchen table and get lunch started. Husband comes in hot and tired from the field for lunch, "You're going to think this is funny."

The hair on the back of my neck is standing straight up. "I am?"

"I took a part off the old tractor and put it on the new one and it works like a dream so I won't be needing that part after all. Suppose you'd better take it back to the Parts Place tomorrow."

Husband and I have been married for over 15 years. In all those years I've never considered divorce an option, but I have, on occasion, contemplated murder!

Susan Wildemuth is a writer who lives in rural Illinois with her husband, son and Spud the Dog.

28 ILLINOIS COUNTRY LIVING AUGUST 1997


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