A continuing tale of life in the boonies
I was disturbed by the unmistakable crump of six-inch mortar shells dropping nearby and thought for a minute that I was caught up in yet another of those irksome conflicts in the Persian Gulf. Then I remembered this was Farmington and the explosions rattling the windows were the result of Animal Control Officer John Fitch finishing off an injured raccoon somewhere out on River Road where a few more potholes would never be noticed ... I rolled over and went back to sleep to the reassuring crackle of machine gun fire.
These were much more satisfying times for local residents now that departmental officials had been given sufficient tools to really get the job done. Farmington Police Department, of course, had always been lightly armed, but since being provided with an aircraft and Exorcet missiles, the P.D. had made noisy parties and sidewalk cyclists things of the past.
For a while, too, dolphins had been an irritation. Introduced by a well-meaning protectionist into the Cocheco River, they had all but wiped out the trout stock. Just in time, the Water Department had been issued explosive harpoons.
Even in this New Age, Town Garbologist Roger Belanger's request for a flame-thrower had been regarded as a little controversial at first, but this item had, in fact, proved extremely useful. Apart from incinerating litter without recourse to stooping, Roger had perfected a technique for scorching, at 20 paces, any offending hand about to drop a gum wrapper on the town's pristine sidewalks.
Fraudulent welfare claims had become a folk memory in Farmington after the decision to equip Trudy and Bruce with a sophisticated lie detection kit - the deluxe model that included thumb screws, and the phenomenon of overdue books at Goodwin Library had been cured by similar firm measures. Even caustic remarks from a faction of the local press corps had been eradicated shortly after Parks and Rec. supremo Zeke.....
BBBRRRNNNGGGGGGGG! I reached a sluggish arm over the side of the bed, switched off the alarm clock and opened my eyes to a sunny morning. On my eiderdown lay a newspaper I had been browsing through the previous night ere sleep had overtaken me. Finishing off an article headlined "Farminginton animal officer to buy shotgun," I shook the remnants of a weird dream out of my head and descended the stairs.
Dust off those voices
The Clemantines, those singing ladies whose honeydewed voices could disarm the fiercest heart, are getting ready to crank up again. Commencing on Sept. 4, the choir will meet every Tuesday in Farmington High School music room from 7-9 p.m. Would-be songsters are warmly welcomed and are reminded that there are no nerve-wracking auditions. All that is required of new recruits is that they be female with the ability to carry a tune.
Know thy teacher as thyself
The third annual Spot-your-teacher picnic, organized by Farmington PTA, is set for Aug. 30 from 5:30-7 p.m. in Memorial Drive Elementary School playground. The PTA will supply free juice and cake, parents should provide their offspring with a picnic dinner and companionship, and teachers will feature themselves sitting near big signs with their names on.
Farmington Business Association will meet once again on Sept. 13 to beat the bushes in search of a president. A potential crowd of 80 members could, but probably won't, show up at the Union Telephone building at 7 p.m. on that date to elect officers for yet another year. Currently Jean Davenhall is vice president, George Mucher is treasurer and Pam Reynolds is secretary, with none of these good folks wanting the Big Job. Royce, are you out there?
All hail the Woman's Club which has come up with a cunning idea to rid the town of two social menaces, unleashed dogs and sidewalk cyclists, at one fell swoop. Their shady method of trapping these irritants is to place trees at regular intervals along the sidewalks of downtown. Firstly, the trunks will present an irresistible lure to quadrupeds, which can then be lined up in the crosshairs of Fitch's bazooka. Secondly the spreading limbs should neatly decapitate pedalers as they hurtle towards those innocent old ladies doddering from store to store like drowsy bees pollinating flowers.
August 27, 1990
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