The Vale of Tines

As hosers we rely on Hoserpedia for much of our enlightenment on the mythology surrounding our local names and customs. Even our federal politicians consult it's vast wealth of submissions in an effort to gain insight to the voting habits of us less than beguiled denizens of the bush. Someone, probably a disgruntled salesperson, submitted this little piece regarding our neck of the woods which we proudly call The Vale of Tines. “Over the last 150 years many have tried to clear a little patch of bush in this unique little community, perhaps for a garden or even a field of oats for the more ambitious. Now the land being a tad rocky, an ancient ice age moraine, a tine or two was oft broken in the digging, or perchance a plow shear, in fact everything that tried to scar the earth got broken and the result has been a sea of metal, yes the valley of tines. Yet the inhabitants love their little vale, and this love must prevail over the ambition of a rocky prosperity.”

Valentines day is quit the wingding here in the Vale of Tines Municipality at Schmoes Diner, as we fancy this as the day to solemnize our community representatives as our servants of undertaking to fleece us of our taxes. We've never had a vote here, as the biggest challenge is to simply to get our advocates to let their name stand for election and if they do no one in heir right mind would challenge their wisdom. Bob and his brother Bob and his other brother Bob make the perfect team for running the ancient 649 Champion grader, and that's really all we need a council for, to keep our twenty three miles of road navigable. The Bobs have been our councillors for nigh on fifteen years, and they don't seem to mind too much because it gives them a legal foothold to be seen any hour of the day in all sorts of perplexing locations. And they have this serene demeanour which allows them to calmly assemble all the local tractors and plow mares in a campaign to free them of being marooned in the ditches which they frequently attend, which usually takes two or three days of supplication.

They have worked out quite the systematical approach to snow clearing, these Bobs. Bob, he goes ahead with a long pole to mark where the ditches are, and his brother Bob, he knows what all the levers and pedals do inside the cab, and Bob's other brother Bob, well he sits on the hood and bangs two pots together to scare away the black bears in case the battered muffler isn't intimidating enough, or when the engine dies and the bears come by for a bit of lunch which the Bobs always have in good supply. They make a pretty good racket, these three, and it is rather entertaining to watch the parade with all the local bears trailing behind.

Creating the school board was a challenge as we needed at least two trustees to make it official. Joe with his nine kids was keen to run, as his kids partiality towards book work was often vanquished by mutiny, and getting a little school established might just free him and his good wife from this struggle. Cultivated Herb was the obvious second choice, but to get him interested a budget large enough to allow him to attend a yearly educational convention in the south had to be assured. Transparency was the key issue among most residents, and it was finally ratified that they could set their own mill rate as long as they promised to stay out of fancy cafes and eat bologna sandwiches on their pedantic missions. After our two trustees were officially solemnized, they were overheard discussing completion of the little church for a school house, the one which the good Baptist missionary had abandoned in his quest for atonement as he fled the community several years ago. And speaking of the good widow Rachael with her her gracious good charm, she was resolemnized as treasurer, and it will be rather interesting to see if she wants to help out with the rafters again, Cultivated Herb being a bachelor and all.

Now you hosers all keep that pot covered, eh.