The Church Of A Swift Kick To The Knackers

 (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 ...

 It's plus two Celsius at 6:30 AM, August eighth, 2024, in Redneck Flats Saskatchewan. My wife gleefully turned the furnace on. The air is full of stale "the burners have been off for awhile" air. A smell that I don't ever want to sense before the middle of September. It's August eighth. Later I will be purging the stale air by turning the AC on. The Queen Of The Furnace will be off to work. The Knave of Cool will be in charge of the temperature curve. It will be warm by then. It's August Eighth for cripes sake.