Slow Movin

Yesterday coming home from a trip to Newport, we passed a Sheriff's patrol car on the side of the road. In the rear view mirror I saw him pull out onto the highway, one car behind us. After a few miles the other car turned off and the patrol car stayed on our tail, which always makes me nervous.

I kept checking the speedometer and I wondered if we had a burned out brake light or something. Another four or five miles went by, and after we passed through the little town of Seal Rock, he turned on his flashers and pulled me over.

I had my drivers license ready but he approached the passenger side. Carol rolled down her window and he looked in and said to me, “Sir, do you know what the speed limit on Highway 101 is?”

I always think of what I should have said hours later, so all I said was, “55.”

What I should have said was, “35, 40, 45, 50 and 55, depending on where you are.”

“Driving too slow is just as dangerous as driving too fast,” he said, looking at my license. “How long have you been driving on this highway?”

All I said was “20 years or so.” (Actually it's 31 years.)

What I should have said was, “A lot longer than you have, sonny!”

“Well you've been impeding traffic. I clocked you at 42 miles per hour back there!”

All I said was, “Oh.”

What I should have said was, “Since you were the only car behind me, I guess I was impeding you. What, are you late for the donut eating contest at the Waldport bakery?”

It's probably just as well that I think of the smart ass things that I should have said quite a bit later, because after chewing me out some more for driving too slow, and checking my record with Interpol or something, he returned my license and let us go on our merry way.

48 Years!

Wow! 48 years of ups and downs, good times and bad and we still love each other.

A Randy Quaid Kind of Day

Yesterday was sunny and warm when I started on my daily walk to JC's house.

A vehicle slowed down and pulled up beside me, a man leaned out the window of his pickup and asked in a familiar voice, “How far up ya goin?”

Now, I should explain that I'm pretty good at recognizing actors in old movies or identifying the narrator's voice in a documentary, and I swear, the guy looking at me with a smile on his face was Randy Quaid! His face, his voice, and his lopsided grin all said, “I'm Randy Quaid!”

“Uh, I'm walking for the exercise,” I stammered, “but thanks anyway!”

He waved and went on his way upriver.

I know that Randy Quaid is supposed to be in Canada seeking asylum from “star whackers” but he either has an exact double or he's secretly visiting Oregon.

I found JC already sitting on his deck enjoying the sun with two iced glasses at the ready, waiting for some wine to be poured.

“This is probably the last wine I'll be able to drink for a while,” he said, “my new prescription says,'no alcohol' and I have to start taking it tomorrow.”

A little while later he looked up at the sky, threw his arms wide and yelled, “I'm not dead yet!”

I thought that maybe he'd given up his atheism and was talking to God, but when I looked up I saw the three vultures circling above us.

It was one of those days.

Blast from the Past

Another old friend stopped by for a surprise visit on Friday.

I hadn't seen Cecil Fredi for close to fifty years. He and I went to gunsmith school together at the Colorado School of Trades, and after we graduated we became partners in a gun shop in Las Vegas. Our shop was located on Charleston Blvd. in Cardinal Sporting Goods, and we specialized in gun repair and custom gun stocks.

We called it quits and went our separate ways after a couple of years but we had a good time while it lasted.

The picture was taken while we were still in gun school, fishing somewhere in Colorado in the late 1950's.