Mitchell Way
Welcome to the Knot Head Years. This is your Captain speaking. For those of you aged 13 through 19, please check your brain in at the door. You may retrieve it at carousel 8 upon reaching the age of 26.
I’ve used bicycles for a great many things. I used one for delivering newspapers. I used one to test my theory of flight. I currently ride an e-bike eleven miles each way to the gym. There are also a few things that I haven’t used the bicycle for . . . because blasted Cheryl put her foot down.
The truck and utility trailer were swung into position at the dump. I could see behind me in my rear-view side mirrors, the environmental block barrier, and the open-top garbage shipping containers. The attendant was pointing at a space between two other pickups.
“I am married to a chimpanzee.”
I could never decide if Cheryl was proud of her choice or disgusted.
Apparently, because of my impatience with reading fine print, I have caused occasional dissension in our marriage.
“Do you remember what we promised in our wedding vows?” she asked in frustration.
“Can I see a copy? I wasn’t really listening to what I said.”
I’m not proud of it, but up until a few years ago I suffered from trypanophobia. It could have started from watching my Nana run a line of stitches up her hand while she was running her treadle sewing machine. I can remember hearing her scream as she attempted to pull her hand free. It was, by the way, the same hand that she regularly got caught in the washing machine wringer. Being a Nana was obviously a dangerous business.
I am from the United States of America. I have a house, a car, a digital television with high speed 5g Wi-Fi, and basically anything I want or need.
Love is a burnin’ thing
And it makes a fiery ring
Bound by wild desire
I fell into a ring of fire
I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire
I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns
The ring of fire, the ring of fire. (June Carter Cash, Merle Kilgore)
It was not long after we moved onto our property in 1987 that I started to plant fruit trees. Living on an old homestead in a house built in 1897, the square acre was fenced in half with one half for the house and the other for the cows. Since we did not want cows or horses, we chose to plant fruits. This was because fruit trees do not need a veterinarian and they very rarely break out of the fencing and wander down the road.
Ricky Dandelion and his wife, Venice lived not far outside the city limits of Bellingham. Along with their house, barn, and out-buildings, they owned eight acres of fenced pastureland on which they grazed cattle — six cows and a bull.
I kid you not! Some of the most embarrassing moments in my life have happened when I was in possession of a watermelon.
Winner defined: Not me.
Normally I am not what you would call the definition of a winner, in the sense that I have been playing the lotto for 40 years and I still have nothing to show for it.
Listen my children and you shall hear of the afternoon ride of Bucky the Deer. Do not turn aside and say, “Grampa is aged,” for I’ve heard that enough from my Progressive agent. Think of this tale and the facts thereof, as a warning to the perils of being in love. . .
After the embarrassing little roof incident where Taylor got a good chewing out by Nel and Greg got a black eye, it was decided that they would take Jason’s advice and seek out his friend Jen for proper training in rope rappelling. This was done without Nel’s knowledge.
It was a hot, dry summer day and Taylor was sitting in his Adirondack chair in the shade of the east side of the store. It was his second break of the day, and his wife Nel was inside helping customers. In his hand he held a can of Cola, and another sat in a cooler by his feet. As usual at this time of day, he heard the crunching of feet on gravel walking his way. He lifted the bill on his Ranger cap and looked up the road.
The Lake Erie Grocery had just reached its 100th anniversary. It was considered a historic building by the state of Washington and its ownership had been passed through several families since it had been built. Located 5 miles from the closest town of Anacortes, Washington, the grocery sat in Erie Valley on the shore of Lake Erie. Towering 1273′ beside it, like a sleeping giant made of feldspar and diorite, was the bald face of Mt. Erie.
In the early 1920s a phrase was coined which stated, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” That being the case I started thinking, “Maybe my audience includes story writers who don’t know they can write stories.” So here is my idea, I’ll post some photos and you make up your own stories of what you think happened in each photo. Then I will tell you the real story behind the photo. We’ll compare your creativity with the truth. This will save me a great deal of time that I would otherwise have had to put out for this week’s blog post. It seems like a simple exercise; let’s try it.