Why are there so many Hippocrates in church?

Dear SMH,

I can explain. No—that would take too long. I can sum up.

It all started when Jeff went off and got an alpaca and named him Llama. He's always wanted one—ever since he met the llama at Machu Picchu, you know, the one that was following that girl around because she had a cookie in her backpack. Anyway, he thought we could raise money by knitting potholders from the wool. (Too much Veggie Tales during quarantine.)

I figured, if he gets an alpaca, I get a burro. I found the sweetest little thing and named her Goat. We can't keep them in the arboretum, of course—they'd eat all the orchids. So we needed a pen for them. Queue a phone call from one of those roving retiree missions groups. You know—old folks who travel the country in RVs and campers, stopping by churches and summer camps to do projects. These guys call themselves the CURMUDGEONS—Crusty Urban Retired Midwives, Undertakers, Doctors, GPs, ODs, Nurses, and Surgeons. Don't worry, what they lack in acronymic creativity they make up for in construction skills.

Actually, their construction work is fantastic. The paddock is as sturdy as all get-out and big enough for Llama and Goat and possibly, in the future, a capybara for my husband. That's where the problem started.

In order to prepare for the capybara, the CURMUDGEONS dug out a good-sized pond and filled it from the fire hydrant. It was hot that day, and when they were finished, they pulled out towels and swim trunks and went for a dip. Their wives stood by the fence and teased the men as they paddled about.

Before long, Llama and Goat found the towels. No, they didn't eat them. Okay, Goat put some good-sized holes in four of them. But they did drag them through the mud.

Then it started raining. This being Colorado, lightning immediately followed. The RVs were a quarter-mile away by the heirloom tomato test garden, but the chapel was only about fifty yards. The women took off. The men waddled out of the pool and rushed to the gate. Then they realized—they forgot to put in a gate! They helped each other over the fence (only three fell in the mud) and ran as fast as they could to the chapel.

Jeff's wife was already inside, setting up for the board meeting's formal dinner. She saw all these wrinkly, wet old men in naught but their sopping swim trunks and immediately grabbed the white tablecloths. The men wrapped themselves, looking for all the world like Greek philosophers. They started orating and pontificating—mostly about "doing no harm!" One man would pretend to die and the others would gather around and resuscitate him. Jeff, being the thespian he is, of course gave them notes.

That's when you and the board walked in. Jeff's wife thought quick and ushered you guys out of the fellowship hall and into the sanctuary. I guess not quickly enough.

Fortunately, the CURMUDGEONS thought the whole thing was hilarious. They wouldn't let us buy them new towels, but they kept the tablecloths. Mike and Randall said you had a good meeting, but Mae didn't look so sure, and I saw Aaron's expression. We're just glad you kept Gino from grabbing a toga for himself.

The CURMUDGEONS left the next afternoon—after they put in a gate. We even got a nice note on a comment card:

"Love the burro and the alpaca. Delightful dinner. The stained glass in the tennis pavilion is a nice touch. Wonderful getting to know your board. Your ministry is the salt of the earth. No hypocrites to be found!"

Please don't fire me!
Kersley

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