OldTroubador's Blog - page 9

Tomorrow, 1 May (today for those of you on the other side of the date line) is the birthday of one Northern Star!!!! Happy Birthday Sweetie

Before we begin with today's eclectic essay, I would like to thank Howlin and Sugar for their hospitality last night. What better way to spend a warm spring evening than with a couple of wonderful friends. Thanks again you two!!!
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I saw a sign along the highway the other day that said “Watch for Fallen Rocks”. What should I do if I see one? How will I recognize that the rock is indeed fallen? Will it have a large letter A painted on it? Will a group of angry townspeople be standing around stoning it? Will it be dressed in a mini-skirt and tube top, standing on the street corner? Or will it be wearing Daisy Dukes and walking around the parking lot of the local truck stop, trying to make $20.00 the hard way? Or will this fallen rock just be lying prostitute on the ground? Really people, I need some guidance here.
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I love seeing the signs on the interstates saying “Speed Limit Enforced by Aircraft”. I picture someone screaming along the highway, thirty miles per hour faster than the limit when, out of the clouds, a WWII vintage P-47 streaks down and strafes his ass into the afterlife.
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I saw a sign on I81 in Virginia for the Battle of Cedar Creek Campground. Is it just me, or does anyone else picture a bunch of retired old men wearing socks with their sandals, shooting bottle rockets and Roman candles at each other? Do their wives use their bras as slingshots to shoot water balloons at the enemy? And how do they choose sides for this battle – RV's vs Tents?
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A couple of years ago, I dropped off the interstate to drive through Lexington, KY. I was headed for the Bluegrass Parkway and the only way to get there was to drive though town – about ten miles and a dozen traffic lights. The first light was only about a quarter mile from the ramp I was and was, of course, red. It was a beautiful early summer day and my windows were down as I worked the Freebird into the line of traffic to my left. As I did,, I heard a distinctive sound - “pock-a, pock-a, pock-a...”
As I have said before, my truck is governed at about 63 miles per hour. This means I have been passed by school buses, U-Haul vans, and little old ladies driving great big Chryslers. I have even been passed by cars on parallel side roads. But this was the greatest ignominy of all. It made no difference that I was slowed by a traffic light, creeping along in second gear, half in one lane, half in another. This final insult? I was being passed by.....

A Ford Model T.
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Back during high school, I went with my church youth group on a camping trip to Pennsylvania one weekend. We set up our tents that Friday evening, had supper, then a short service. After that, we sat around the campfire for a while, telling stories, singing songs, doing the usual camp out stuff. Too soon, it was time to lay down for the night. As it was a nice evening, I spread my ground sheet outside and put my sleeping bag on top of it. I crawled in and was soon asleep.
Sometime during the night, I felt a scratching in my hair and heard tiny toenails scratching the ground sheet. As I woke up, I figured that a raccoon had stopped by to see what manner of creature was sleeping there; I was also delighted to realize that I would see a raccoon up close and personal. As I opened my eyes in anticipation, all I saw was a white stripe surrounded by black fur. IT WAS A SKUNK!!! I did a U-turn in my sleeping bag and burrowed into the bottom of it. I wanted to get as far away, and put as much material as possible, between me and those scent glands. I also called that skunk every dirty rotten name I could think of, forgetting, of course, about the other people at the campsite. As I paused to take a breath, and thankful that the skunk was too scared to even spray me as it ran away, I was reminded of the company I was keeping when I heard the preacher's voice say,

“Bill, I don't think God does that to little skunks”.


A touch of brass

I am a dom, let me introduce you to my sub:



Wait a minute, I'll be right back.
GET IN HERE NOW AND GET ON THIS TABLE!!!! DO WHAT YOU'RE TOLD!!!



Now - Get undressed.



Very good, sub. Now, spread yourself wide open for the camera.



You did not come when ordered. Accept your punishment.



Congratulations to EVERYONE who participated - y'all did a great job with this challenge. A lot of creative people on this
site

Be sure to visit all the participants:
Jersey_Girl. tight_wet_lips, aussiewanker, texangel, bighoss2, WendySilvia, showy_Showy, NerdyBird, steelrat60, Masterslizzie, Whispermyname, amps79, TenderMoments, FiFi72uk, LuLusBakery, vouyr, undisclosedid1, mrsUnderDog59, d_licious_d, celticone, J_detroit, texasCactus, MrsTexasPeach, hwnh, FinNude, guitartxn; shegotthejak

In a previous life, I wrote a piece about my dachshund ghost-writing for me. She has since retired and is content to sit on the front porch and bark at the cattle in the pasture next door. This means I had to find my own inspiration.
Sometimes, an entire day on the road will bring forth the Muse, so I set pen to paper to record that particular trip. Not only does this give me a chance to share that day with everyone, but it also sets that day firmly in my lackadaisical memory. At other times, it is a stretch of highway, a season, or an entire country that fires a literary spark.
And at times, a singular glimpse at something mundane and/or common will trigger a thought which soon evolves into a whole story. Such is the case with a bit of roadkill I saw a few days ago. And, just for the record, this is NOT about me.

His dreams are as dead as that possum on the side of the road
Loneliness rolls through him like a train whistle on the cold, dark prairie.
His heart is as empty as the bottles on his kitchen table
His hopes shattered; his soul is gone

The stereo is playing but all he hears
is the slamming of the door echoing between his ears
And his little boy's voice saying “Bye-bye Daddy”
As he is carried away in his Mama's arms.

He grabs his keys and a jug and with a little luck
He can outrun his demons in that old Ford truck
With the wheel in one hand, bottle in the other
The road turned left, he turned right
Despair died on this cold, lonely night.

Not all my ideas lead to the macabre, morose, or morbid. Witness a breeze, a pear tree, and a spring evening at a truck stop.

It was spring in the south, late in the evening. The night was warm and soft. It had been a good day for the driver; no schedule, no place to be really be, just sit up front and drive. Six hundred miles passed under his front bumper this day. Windows down, the sun was warm on his skin. There was not much traffic to bother him, so he savored the landscape as it scrolled past his window. The hills, with their trees beginning to leaf out, the streams tumbling over the rocks. A hot air balloon rose from the next valley, a bright bold splash of color against the deep blue of the sky. He watched as calves cavorted in the pastures and laughed as foals tried to figure out how to use their legs. Yes, it had been a good day.
He paused before he walked back to his truck, carrying his shower kit bag in one hand and his supper in a paper bag in the other. Over the rumble of the idling trucks, he could hear tree frogs singing to each other. Sparrows and chickadees fussed each other in the azaleas as they settled in for the night. A killdeer flew overhead, its keening call sharp in the night air. Flowering pear trees lined the sidewalk on which he walked, and as he walked, a breeze sprang up, blowing the petals off the trees to float on the breeze as they fell like snow, piling up in small drifts along the concrete path. And he stood there in wonder as the flowers fell gently upon his cheek, like the soft kisses of his daughter.

I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who reads and enjoys my blogs. Thank You.

Been a long 7-1/2 weeks of driving. I'm going back and spend a long weekend with my daughter. Then back on the road again.

I will be taking a sabbatical from here for a while. Best of luck to all of you, in all you do.


I'm headed south

Friday afternoon, I loaded my van with everything I would need for a short weekend away and headed for one of the Texas state parks along the coast. I arrived in the early evening and prepared my campsite and made a simple meal for supper. I grabbed my cast net and waded into the water to put some bait, large mullet, into the cooler for the next day. I also caught a few shrimp for use that evening. I baited a hook with a large live shrimp below a clacking float and cast it out. The tide at the time was running out, so the fish were not around, but no matter. It was peaceful watching the sun set to the west. As it sank below the horizon, I half expected the water to sizzle and steam. The lights of the near-shore drill rigs came on, testimony to the work going on a few miles out. But the sun going down and the lights coming on brought a pestilence upon the land – mosquitoes. As I faced the water, the winged leeches clustered on my back; when I face the dunes, on my chest and belly. After half an hour of turning back and forth to try to keep them at bay, I finally gave into the inevitable and retreated to my van for a night’s sleep.
I was wakened after a few hours by a strange sound. I shone my flashlight at a window and saw that it, and all the windows, was covered with mosquitoes, trying to find a way inside. They knew, somehow, that an easy meal was trapped in there. The noise of the buzzing of thousands of tiny vampires is what caused me to wake up. That minor annoyance settled, I turned over and went back to sleep, secure inside Detroit iron.
I rolled out of bed the next morning before the sun. I checked the windows to see if it was safe to go outside, looking for mosquitoes and possibly an alligator. Seeing that it was safe, I fired up the stove to make some coffee for myself. As the pot began to burble happily over the gas fire, I headed down to my fishing gear. As the first rays of the new day arched across the sky, I threaded a piece of cut mullet on a hook and waded out to the first sandbar, where I flung the bait and weight as far as I could. I walked back, put the rod in the holder, tightened the line and eased off on the drag. I headed back to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. As I held it and waited for it to cool, I noticed that the rod I had just left was sitting at a funny angle; I headed back down to investigate. In the short time it took to walk and pour a cup of coffee, something had grabbed my bait and run all the line off the spool, breaking the line just above the steel leader. I reeled in all the line and put the pole to the side for the time being, content to watch the world wake up. And what a treat. A flight of skimmers flew by in an echelon right formation. Skimmers are the only bird with their lower beak longer than their upper. The lower beak skims the surface of the water, snapping shut as it finds a shrimp or small fish. I witnessed the small Vee-shaped wakes left by the bills in the water, interrupted only when the birds closed their beaks to feed. As I watched them go by, something to my left caught my eye. Two large sharks had floated over the first sandbar and were cruising back and forth in the gut next to the beach, feeding on the fish they found there. Their patrol pattern never brought them close to me and I wondered why. I soon found the answer as a much larger shark drifted past the spot I was sitting. It looked to be about 12-14 feet long and was probably a bull shark, but could have been a hammerhead. I grabbed a stout rod with heavy reel and excitedly jammed a piece of mullet on the hook. I waited until the shark was headed my direction and flipped the bait toward my target. I knew that my rig would not stand up to the fight that was coming, but that it was going to be a fun few minutes. In my excitement though, I miscalculated the cast and hit the shark in the head instead of laying the bait a few yards in front. This scared the shark and I watched in awe as the shark turned south, its huge tail cutting a swath through the water as it propelled the shark 150 yards over the third sandbar before diving. And I will swear to my dying day that that shark left a hole in the water, parted the sea as it were, as it raced for the southern horizon. I sat back down in my chair, marveling at the sheer power I witnessed as the Gulf waters calmed from the thrashing they had just received.
After collecting my wits, I reeled in my line and prepped a second stout pole. I walked each of these to the second sand bar to cast the bait and weight out past the third bar. As I cast the second one, I failed to thumb the spool properly and put a rat’s nest in the reel. As I stood there picking out the knots, I was looking around and noticed that a single fin was surfing over the third sandbar and some hundred yards to the right. If you want to know the meaning of fear, stand on the second sandbar with half a bleeding fish at your feet and a shark cruising the area. I quickly unknotted the line, reeled in the slack and cast as hard and as far as I could in the direction of the shark. I watched as the fin turned toward the sound of the splash; as soon as I saw that, I started to walk back to the beach. I plugged the rod into its holder, tightened the lines and checked the drags on both reels, and settled back with a cup of coffee to enjoy the morning.
I leaned back, coffee mug resting on my belly, soaking in the warmth of the morning sun. Even though I was totally at ease, I was ready to move as soon as line started peeling from either one of the reels. Through half opened eyes, I watched as seagulls floated on the air currents, watching for bait fish or shrimp on the surface. Phalanxes of pelicans, both white and brown, flew past, looking prehistoric in demeanor, their wings beating in sequence – the first, then the second, and so on down the line. From the salt marsh behind the dunes to my back, dozens of sandhill cranes took off, wheeling in the air without the regimentation of geese or even pelicans. I chuckled as tiny shore birds, little gray puffballs with stick legs, were chased up the sand by the gentle lapping waves, only to turn and chase the water back into the Gulf. Sand crabs scuttled along the beach, ready to jump back into their holes at, in their paranoia, the slightest hint of danger.
One of my reels started talking as the line started walking off. I set down my coffee, pulled the rod from its holder, tighten up the drag some and set the hook hard, three times. This only served to upset whatever was swimming away and the fight was on. I walked up and down the beach, gaining line, losing line, gaining again. The feeling that I had hooked a bulldozer came over me as my arms started to burn. Soon though, I sensed the fish starting to tire and applied more pressure. The fish regained some strength and fought hard as I brought it over the second sandbar. Over the first bar it came and I saw the flash of a spotted tail, slightly blue in color. I had caught a bull red fish, or red drum. Its scales glowed bronze in the bright morning sun and I quickly took it to hand. Wielding a pair of pliers, I removed the hook . The fish measured approximately forty inches and I walked it back out into the Gulf. I spent the next fifteen minutes holding it and moving it back and forth through the water; I could feel it regaining its strength. Finally, it was strong enough to swim on its own, and I released it. I re-baited the line and cast it out again.
Soon after this, I noticed a minivan cruising toward me along the beach. It parked about 150 yards from me and I cussed my luck. The beach was empty for about a mile, yet this family chose to intrude on my space. The kids piled out, chasing seagulls, running for the water, their parents shouting for them to wait as they set up their day camp. Fortunately, I did hear the father admonish the young ones not to bother the fisherman down the way. I decided to pay attention to my coffee instead and settled back to watch my lines.
As the tide was still moving in, I expected some more action shortly and I was not disappointed. I soon heard that familiar sound as my Penn 309 announced line getting peeled off at a high rate of speed. Once again, I set the hook hard. This was a harder fight, the fish stronger and larger than the bull red I had caught. I had a feeling I knew what it was. The kids down the way saw me fighting a fish and called to their dad; he brought them near by but not too close. I fought the fish up and down the beach then felt it beginning to tire. Once I got it over the second sandbar, the fight lasted only a few more minutes. I surfed it onto the beach, placed the rod in its holder, and grabbed a pair of heavy leather gloves. I wrapped the steel leader around one hand and took a hold of the tail with my other and lifted out of the water a five and a half foot long blacktip shark. Before I could drop the shark on the sand to start cleaning it for the cooler, the mother, who had eased over toward us, screamed and started shoving her children back toward the minivan. She tossed them in and began throwing all their beach gear in after them, yelling at her husband the whole time. I really think he wanted to stay and watch me clean the shark, but went back to the van and they all drove away in a cloud of dust, mother screeching the whole way. I laughed for a while, then settled down to work. As I was cleaning out the belly cavity, a park ranger rolled up. I knew the man from being there so much; he asked what I did to scare the tourists. I told him that all I did was catch a shark. He said, “They pulled up to the gate, the wife demanding a refund because no one warned them that there were sharks in the water.” I guess it was all he could do to keep a straight face while talking with her. We shared some coffee and swapped a few lies about fishing, then he went his way and I went back to work.
The water was a beautiful shade of light green, stretching out to the southern horizon. I decided, for the time being, to forgo the heavy surf rods and try my luck with lighter gear for spotted sea trout. As I gathered my wading gear, I chuckled, remembering a story from a couple of years previous. I had complained to a work colleague that I was having little success catching any trout even after throwing my whole tackle box at them. Carl, my colleague, replied that I would have better luck if I just tied on one lure and cast that at the fish instead of tossing away a whole tackle box. I then thanked him for his advice and stole his cup of coffee. As I was getting ready to wade, I looked out across the calm Gulf waters and saw seagulls by the dozen swoop down and pick baitfish and shrimp off the surface. I watched as one would fly away with its prize, only to be harassed by others trying to steal the meal from the successful hunter. Sometimes, one bird would escape with its bounty, others were xxxxxx to drop theirs. This would begin a wheeling cacophony of gulls chasing the fish back to the surface of the water. Sometimes, the by now dead fish would be scooped up by another gull, other times it would be eaten from below by a larger fish.
I walked out to the first sandbar and began casting toward the second, allowing the gold spoon to sink a few feet before reeling it back in. I had a few hits and managed to bring a couple of trout to hand. There was no need to measure them as they were clearly longer than the minimum. I slipped them onto the stringer attached to my belt and kept casting. After a while, I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I looked up and down the beach, but there was no one there. The feeling of being watched was still with me though; I kept scanning until I found the source. A green sea turtle had poked its immense head out of the water to keep an eye on the strange two legged creature standing on the first bar. I laughed, waved, and said hello to my visitor.
The day continued much like this, alternating between wade fishing for trout and surf casting for larger species. Often, I would just sit, sip my coffee, maybe eat a sandwich, and watch as Nature went about her business. Gulls and pelicans continued fishing, schools of bait would swim by, sometimes stopped in their journey by hungry fish exploding through them. A family of porpoises played a couple hundred yards off-shore before moving along. By late afternoon, the tide had slackened and the fishing slowed down. I needed to pack up my van and head back to the house; there was still much to be done on this fine day. I tossed any live bait left back into the Gulf and sent the dead bait over the dunes for the crabs to feast on. A couple more bull reds had been caught and released and in my coolers, I had three sharks and half a dozen trout to be cleaned. Waving at the gate attendants, I rolled my van onto the road and headed back to the Piney Woods of Texas. After an hour and a half drive, it was time to wash down my gear with fresh water and re-oil the reels. I carried the coolers to the cleaning table and steaked the sharks and fileted the trout. By the time I hit the shower to wash the salt and fish scales off of me, I was tired. As I stood under the cool spray, I smiled, enjoying in my memory a glorious day.

First, Trent Willmon, Beer Man


Next, a little Blackfoot


Finally, a little Van Zant

I woke up in Hagerstown, MD early one morning. As I stepped out of the truck to stretch and walk inside, I looked into the blue-black velvet sky. The moon had just risen and the morning star hung in the sky above, poised to fall into the basket of the crescent moon.
Coffee in hand, I walked back to the truck, did my morning inspections and paperwork, and settled in to start my day. That big old Detroit rumbled into life and, as all the needles settled into the green, I slipped the clutch and eased out of the parking lot; I was soon headed south to Columbia, South Carolina.
Southbound on I-81, Maryland and West Virginia were soon in my rear-view mirror. The Freebird soared down the highway, which was laid in a valley of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Just on the other side of the eastern ridgeline was the Shenandoah River while to the west were three or four ridges leading to West Virginia. Spring had not yet come this far north but was soon to be busting out all over.
The eastern sky was brightening as we rumbled along; the sky was clear and lemon colored. To my west, the sky was still dark where the sun had not yet reached. The eastern hills were purple in the shadow of the new morning. A thin blanket of ground fog was cloaking the valley floor. To the west, as the dark sky retreated, the shadow moved down the hillsides. Details previously hidden were revealed: cattle waking up to start their grazing, apple and peach orchards soon to be heavy with flowers then fruit, small towns, and tiny roads.
Much of the history of the United States was born here. At one time, these valleys marked the western frontier of our nation a-borning. Among these hills were born generals, statesmen, soldiers, farmers, inventors – men and women who shaped our country for a dozen or more generations. Land was plowed by both farrow and cannon as men fought the elements and each other. The cities along the coast like Boston, New York, and Williamsburg, may have been the birthplace of our country, but valleys like this were the wombs.
The sun came up like thunder over the eastern hills, springing out of the Shenandoah Valley. The light hit my eyes, almost painfully after the previous hours of darkness, and I scrambled to put on my sunglasses. Exposed rocks on the western cliffs glowed, lit by the sun but seemingly from an inner power source. The sun warmed my face and heated the inside of the cab; my windows were soon lowered. Sun and breeze caressed me as the Freebird ate up the miles, like an eagle with a salmon. We rolled over hills and around curves effortlessly as the sun rose and the shadows shortened.
The dawning of a new day is always an evocative time for me. On this day, I reminisced about the many thousands of sunrises and sunsets I have seen over the years. Every one of them was different and special. Along the eastern seaboard, it happens quickly, due to the mountains and hills. In the Midwest and Great Plains, the rise and fall of the sun lasts much longer.
As the sun lowers itself below the western horizon, the sky overhead turns such a rich shade of blue, even a king would despair of ever wearing such a color. This blue stretches back to the east where the color fades to black. On the horizon, where the sun has laid its head, is a vivid tapestry of yellows, oranges, reds, and purples, each melding and melting into the next before becoming the aforementioned blue. This rainbow of pastels hangs in the air, imperceptibly getting smaller as the blue-blackness is pulled slowly and gently across the sky, a blanket for the land.
The coloration becomes a semicircle against the darkening sky, shrinking slowly as water slowly draining from a sink or as a fire dies to a bed of coals that soon cools to embers. Before long, there is a mere sliver of light to the west that points to where the sun was last seen. This last bit of light hangs on tenuously, reluctant to give way to the night's relentless march. It does though, as the sun rests, gathering its strength for the new day.
As this act is being played, another is coming on stage. The blanket of night draws with it a coverlet of stars, shining and twinkling against the blackness. Along the edge of the darkness, where the sky is still a royal blue, the brightest stars wink on, at first imagined then coming into focus. Soon, they are joined by tens, then hundreds, then thousands more as the bejeweled coverlet is stretched across the black velvet bedclothes.
The sun rising is a reverse replay of the previous night's drama; all is dark, then out of the darkness, shapes are seen as the first, almost non-existent light pushes against the black mantle. Very slowly, during a time span of many miles, the sky brightens and some details begin to emerge amongst the shapes; they are still just darker forms though against the backdrop of a slightly less dark sky. After many more miles, an arc of light climbs over the eastern horizon – the sun has regained enough strength to throw back the heavy blanket of night. The stars retreat also, albeit slowly, their glory eclipsed by the star closest to us. Before long, but interminably to those who have been awake all night, the northern limb of the sun peeks over the horizon, huge, brilliant as it awakes and awakens the world.
These thoughts soon disappear as the sun stands high and the Freebird soars into southern Virginia. Here, there is no wide valley to place a highway and the road climbs and falls through the Blue Ridge. The town of Wytheville is just ahead; here I will turn left onto I-77 and cross a couple of ridgelines before gliding down Fancy Gap and into central North Carolina. The interstate winds up and down steeply, but it is no matter. My load is light enough to not impede our progress going up yet heavy enough to push us quickly down the other side. The 'Bird knows this: she climbs like a fighter jet and slides down like an avalanche. She hangs into the turns, rock steady, painting a line on the road. The last downgrade, Fancy Gap, is before us, a 4%, seven mile long drop; at the bottom is North Carolina. I set the engine brakes and let her coast down, chortling with glee. To our left is a valley, a small town and farmers' fields lie therein. There is no real sensation of falling. Rather, it is as if the valley is rising up to meet us.
I draw a breath and cross into North Carolina. After a few miles, Pilot Mountain becomes visible ahead and to the left. I wave to Andy, Opie, Aunt Bea, Barney, and all the rest of Mayberry. I roll through Statesville, then stroll through Charlotte. Another breath and I am in South Carolina. Just a few more miles to go, a few more turns of the wheel, and I will be at my destination. There, I will watch the sun set.

They say, "A father works from sun to sun, but a mother's work is never done." Boy, ain't that the truth.
They also say, "Behind every successful rancher, there is a wife who works in town."
This song is for all you ladies out there, wives, girlfriends, our lovers, and our mothers. A big THANK YOU!!! to each one of you. I hope I speak for all the guys when I say, We appreciate you all and all you do.

I am heading south to South Carolina after spending a day in New Hampshire. Now don't get me wrong, New Hampshire is a pretty state and the people are nice, but....
For breakfast today, I asked if they had any grits. I was shown a selection of sandpaper.
I looked at the CD's they had for sale; I didn't recognize any of the artists. I'm afraid if I had asked for Molly Hatchet, I would have been sent to see an old woman about an axe; Blackfoot – someone who hadn't washed their feet in a few months. If I had mentioned Bocephus, I probably would have been arrested for public profanity.
I'm back below the Mason/Dixon Line now and I can feel my sinuses getting back to normal. And, I have regained the letter R in my vocabulary.
Don't the heaters work in the cars up there? Nearly everyone I saw driving by was wearing a heavy coat, gloves, and hat.
How can you tell a transplant to Massachussets? They are the ones using a turn signal.

Tighty's blog yesterday reminded me of a story. When I worked and lived in North Carolina, we had to go through an annual physical, complete with bloodwork. My friend and workmate had a terrible time keeping his cholesterol numbers down; they usually were between 225-250, no matter what he did. Mine was in the 140 region, no matter what I ate. So when the results came in, I would celebrate. On the following Saturday, I would make breakfast. First, I would fry a half pound of bacon. Then I would crack about 4-5 eggs in the grease in the pan. After they were done, I would start frying slices of bread in grease until it was all gone. I would plate the fried bread, layer it with bacon, then put the eggs on top of all that. Oh yeah, now THAT”S good eats!!!
And on Monday? You better believed I bragged about it.

For those that don't know, I used to live in New Jersey. Hey, don't blame me, I was five years old when Mom and Dad brought me there. I don't miss much about that place except the food. Picture this: Two brothers behind the counter, both tossing pizza dough in the air. Slap on some sauce, toss on the cheese, scatter some pepperoni, then into the oven it goes. At some point during the evening, the two brothers will get into a fight, one will use a pizza knife, the other will defend himself with a pie pan. Mama is in the kitchen sweating over a bubbling pot of sauce, whose secret is more closely guarded than the Queen's jewels. Papa is at a corner table, wearing a suit, sipping grappa. Now that's real pizza. Pizza Hut/Papa John's/Little Caesar's can all kiss my ass.
And where else can you get Hungarian/Portugese/Thai/Indian/German food, all on the same night, just by walking a few blocks except in the New York/New Jersey metroplex?

I drove through/into eight states today: New Hampshire, Massachussetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Maryland. I can only do that in the Northeast because the states are so small. I have it on good authority that after this year's baseball season, the winner of the AL East will get to annex Connecticut, the loser will get Rhode Island. That works out well because Rhode Island is nothing but a suburb of Boston anyway.

If all you ever see of the Atlantic seaboard states is along I-95, you are missing out on a lot. For all my complaining, I really do enjoy driving through most of the aforementioned states. Just keep me away from the cities. The lakes, streams, and rivers are beautiful. The history in New England is unbelievable – towns founded in the 1600's, the early American authors and artists all lived up there, and of course, it was where the first shots of the American Revolution were fired. And for those who are into industrial history, all the old factories in all the old cities are still there. Many have been re-purposed. Sadly, some are vacant and vandalized, but they are all a part of the history of our country.

Someone climbed to the top of Jugtown Mountain on I-78 in New Jersey and poured colored water down the icicles hanging off the rock cut. They were red, and blue, and green, and purple. It was a treat to see that.

The first person killed for the cause of American freedom was a black man, Crispus Attucks, who was killed during the Boston Massacre.

Did I mention how beautiful that part of the country is? I really do enjoy it. The fall colors, the mountains, the Pine Barrens of New Jersey – get off of I-95 and run the back roads. Go to Sandy Hook in New Jersey and see the cliffs come right to the beach, then explore the twin spire lighthouse at the top. Go to Mystic Seaport in Connecticut and see a wonderfully restored fishing village from the 1600-1800's, complete with perfectly restored or replicated water craft of the day. It's worth the trip. Go north on I-87 in New York and turn right to take the road to Ticonderoga. The lakes on either side are breath-taking. The road ends at Lake Champlain; who knows, you may get lucky and see Champs, the local lake monster, a la the Loch Ness monster. Then ride the ferry across the lake to Vermont and continue your adventure.

I spent $20 on Girl Scout cookies earlier in the week. The money went to a good cause. I'm not talking about the Girl Scouts, I talking about feeding my addiction.

How do you break the finger of a Boston Red Sox fan? Punch him in the nose.

Spring is coming. I saw it when I was down south last time. Is it just me or is one of life's pleasures just sitting outside in the evening and listening to the tree frogs serenade each other? By the way, for those of you north of the Potomac River, spring has not been cancelled as rumored. It has just been postponed and will be combined with the Fourth of July celebrations this year, to be immediately followed by more cold weather. Hey, it's got to be true, I read it on the internet.

Has anyone else ever been on the phone with someone special and fallen asleep during the call? Not because the other person is boring, but just from being worn out? I thought so. Have any of you ever woke up and shouted “Shields and Yarnell!” ? Guess I'm the only one then.

I can't wait to run through the heartland in a few months. There is something reassuring about watching the farmers plowing their fields and getting them ready for planting.

I'm not the best truck driver out on the highways, but compared to a lot of the critters and wingnuts out there, I have to be in the top 5%.

The Tappan Zee Bridge is being rebuilt. They have started putting the new pilings into the Hudson River.

This winter has been so bad, even the Freebird is suffering from hypertension after ingesting all the salt that's been laid down on the roads.

In a little less than 4400 miles, I will have put 100,000 miles on the Freebird III. I should hit the magic number in a little less than two weeks. I've been in her for almost nine months now. Damn, she's a good truck.

It's time for a little music.

A little Blackfoot, with Shorty Medlocke on banjo.


And a little Hank, Jr.