The Church Of A Swift Kick To The Knackers

 There hasn't been much rain, but there has been enough to dampen the ground and the spirits of the district farmers, who have parked the combines and headed to to the coffee shops, taverns, and parts-stores for 'supplies'. They all may be complaining about the weather, how there is seven degrees of separation from harvest rain to Trudeau, but I am enjoying being able to open a window without the belching, burping, black diesel smoke, and the sickening fine dust of the machine driving past. Clean air and country silence. The way it's meant to be. I'm not saying that I want then to park the machines for the year. I know they have a job that needs to get done.  I'm just saying that it's nice that Mother Nature decided to give us all a break. "But my wheat's grade." "Suck it up. You'll survive Jethro." And he will. Because deep down he knows that it could be snow instead of rain.   Don't drink too much today, Jethro. The sun is g...

"SquashHulk angry!" "SquashHulk smash!" It's big, It's ugly, it's green. IT'S ANGRY! (I hope It's edible) That's a size 13 shoe beside.

 I was pissed off that the wait for a lumbering freight at a highway 7 level crossing, west of Saskatoon, was over 15 minutes, but I was entertained by the slide show that rolled past.  I would have taken photos of the show but I wasn't prepared to enjoy an on my phone ticket from the officer in the RCMP cruiser that was waiting in the lane to my right. This blog is a fun mess, but there is no possible way I can afford a ticket just to enhance the visuals.   Photos would have been nice. There are very talented people tagging the train cars. You will see the most colourful, most graphically precise work on a car. That is the Journeyperson tagger.  And then maybe two or ten cars down, past varying levels of work and prose, you will see it in sprayed black scrawl. "Fuck" The apprentice speaks. Well, we all had to start somewhere. I give these people credit. It must take a considerable amount of hutzpah to hang out in rail yards, trying to find enough light to do your be...

 (I stole the photo from Facebook.)   I learned how to drive on rarely used trails, and across stone free-ravine free fields, in a 1956 International Harvester pickup truck, with an oil bath air cleaner, hot water six cylinder motor, and three on the tree, with an non-synchronized  first gear. The truck also featured a manual choke and a hand throttle, the throttle which was designed to keep the engine revs up during the start, but what also was used as a 1950s version of a horribly dangerous cruise control.  (You needed to release it by hand. Touch the brake? Full speed ahead!   And good luck to you.) Armstrong (no power) steering. Manual drum brakes. Frost shields on the side and back windows. (Ask Great Grandpa about them. Use a Ouija Board if you must.) My point is that with few comforts provided (or invented) you needed to learn about your vehicle, it's limitations, and, more importantly, it's feel. My wife has a nice vehicle. It talks. It beeps when you cr...

 "The last time I saw you you didn't have grey hair." As much as that statement kicked my ass, only fools argue with the blatant truth. I dressed nice. The minute I walked into the venue I regretted it. "I hope it's a quick service. I'm going to melt." I didn't melt, but my deodorant failed. It was 95 degrees F. in the shade.  It was dead still and stifling hot in the packed auditorium.  My jacket came off before I was seated. I would have taken off my pants but for funeral decorum. I dress nice out of respect. I will not wear a tie, but in my suit, shirt and hat I do look mighty fine.  I have never embarrassed myself  because of the way I dress up.  Except perhaps I did yesterday. When did it become standard practice to slob it down for funerals? Shorts? T-shirts? "Do you own a razor, there Chumley?" As I walked into the 100 degree venue a random T-shirt commented with sarcasm,  "you look good." I wanted to tell him to piss off a...

 I'm going to blame it on the smoke, but in reality the smoke lifted early last evening, around the same time the rain that was supposed to fall didn't. I was choked up as I removed the nest this morning. I won't admit to having tears in my eyes, and if you had caught me I would have admitted to no more than smoke and allergies. Men don't cry over the most crushing of events. We certainly don't cry over the death of a baby bird.  Allergies, you know. This spring a pair of barn swallows began spending time around the house, perching on the rope light above the deck, outside the kitchen window.  My wife first, and then me, would chatter at them, try to imitate their language, through the window. When we sat on the deck we would talk our version of swallow as they flew by, and pretty soon they became comfortable, and would join us while we were sipping wine or having morning coffee. Them, perched on the rope lights, just out of the reach of the weird apes, and us down ...