Deb suggested this morning that we hold off one more day before heading back over to The Mountain. I think that’s probably wise. I also think she’s trying to time our next trip to coincide with the Tuesday special at Carolyn’s Razorback Ribs — brisket street tacos.
I’m good with that.
I had to run to the Harrison post office today to mail a couple of things. Again it’s related to the Bumper Bunker, this time to formally transfer transferable warranties to the new owner.
On the bright side, those letters didn’t have to be notarized. Unfortunately, it costs a hundred bucks to transfer. The new owner has offered to reimburse us, but I think we’ll split the difference (at least).
No word yet on when the sale of Second Chance Ranch will close. Color us furious.
My self-absorbed post the other day — “Did you know?” — opened flood gates of memory and thought. Sorry, but I didn’t see that comin’. Now you’re stuck with Round Two, more answers to questions you didn’t ask.
I generally have more respect for people who smoke, drink, swear and shoot guns than I have for people who don’t. Generally.
I quit the NRA a few years ago. It’d be accurate to say that the NRA quit me long before that.
I’m a life member of the American Motorcyclist Association. That vestigial affiliation means about as much to me now as my first marriage certificate.
I no longer follow professional sports — I haven’t watched the NFL in years, MLB never was a passion of mine, and the NBA let me know a long time ago that I’m not its target market.
I don’t believe that paying college athletes dooms “amateur” sports, but it’ll be the end of my interest.
I’m as likely to watch ESPN as I am to watch MSNBC.
I don’t yoga and I don’t zumba. If you see me runnin’, you run, too, ’cause something’s chasin’ me.
I still have my first pocketknife — a Camillus Cub Scout knife, circa 1965.
I favor Case over Buck — it’s an upbringing thing. I miss Schrade, along with knives made by the company that tried to rise from its rubble, Canal Street Cutlery.
I have a weakness for flashlights.
I like good socks. Before we set off on our journey, Deb and I each bought six pairs of Darn Tough socks, made in Vermont. Best I’ve ever worn.
I prefer fall and spring to summer and winter. I like wearing hats and sweaters. Wool is the best.
I’ll choose deerskin over cowhide.
I’ve heard enough “classic rock” to last me the rest of my life.
I like Country music — not hick-hop, not bro, not pop, but real Country.
I once held a Holstein cow’s innards, still connected to the very-much-alive cow, in my arms for three hours while my father performed a caesarian section.
I’ve always loved air travel. I haven’t flown in almost eight years.
I’ve flown in a helicopter. A lot. Corporate, not military or sightseeing.
I voted for Trump. Twice.
I believe that Orwell and Rand make Nostradamus look like a piker.
I don’t suffer whiners, quitters, wallowers, cheaters or addicts.
I’m good at moving on. Nothing personal.
I’m a morning person. I wasn’t always that way.
I did est.
I was transformed by a single moment during the est Training — the realization that I could “live a life without meaning.”
I spent Easter 1977 at a monastery in France with 40,000 other bedraggled pilgrims.
I’m not looking for a church, thank you.
I didn’t consume alcohol until after I was of legal drinking age.
I don’t drink wine very often, but when I do it’s red.
I prefer bourbon. I love chili peppers. And huckleberries.
I was a guest lecturer on media relations at a large university.
I left the public-relations business before the last of the honor did.
I was serenaded with “Happy Birthday” the day I turned 21 by Tommy Casanova and his siblings. They brought me a cake and put up a big hand-painted sign at the gas station where I worked in West Glacier, Montana.
I rode German motorcycles and drank Canadian beer with my childhood sports hero, Jim Stillwagon.
I’ve climbed (hiked) as high as 12,441 feet AMSL — Baldy Mountain, highest peak in the Cimarron Range, Sangre de Cristo Mountains, Philmont Scout Ranch, New Mexico in 1972.
I rode a borrowed motorcycle to the lowest point in the US — 282 feet BMSL, Badwater Basin, Death Valley in 1998.
I once drove the west side of the Going-To-The-Sun Road at night with my headlights off.
I’ve owned a Suzuki Samurai and a Ford Pinto.
I learned to drive a stick on a restored 1929 Ford Model A coupe.
I learned guitar so that I could play John Denver songs. Don’t judge.
I once walked away from a chance to record in Nashville — at the time I didn’t have enough money to pay my share. My life and the world of music are better for that.
I learned to cuss at church camp.
I have no offspring, no one who carries my DNA. As far as I know, anyway.
I once used duct tape on a muffler. Duct tape and muffler tape are different things, as it turns out.
I’ve gained more by pressing forward than I have by holding back.
I consider myself fortunate to still be alive.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.