Isn’t everything always in the trunk?
It wasn’t a lot of ice, but still, this morning, stuck to my windshield, there it was. Even more interesting to see, as it glinted in the waking sunlight, was that it had formed itself to the shmear, shall we call it?, left by my windshield wipers from the evening before; I’d used nearly the last of my washer fluid to clean the windshield. So, this morning, I had crystals galore, streaked in long, fluid (and a little tattered-y, because my wipers are in jeopardy of learning cursive handwriting, so bad are they) rivers of frozen delight. I know this is going to...
I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, faith, humor, life
I have realized, lately, that I am, at best, a third cousin once removed from my own definition of self-awareness. I like to think I'm savvy and a smooth operator, most of the time, but I had a bit of a bitter pill to swallow yesterday, when, on my way back from Scooba (perish the thought!), I had to stop and get gas. This is hardly a new thing for me, but unlike my usual stop-and-gos at the Scooba Junction gas station, I had neglected to look at my gas gauge until I was in Brooksville, about twenty minutes north. I had no choice but to pull...
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