I awoke last Tuesday morning on the second floor of a tired hotel, situated at the intersection of two state routes — 11 lanes in all — and a stone’s throw from a busy Interstate exit. The rush-hour grumble penetrated our room’s window and walls.
Sirens wailed. Car horns blared. Tires squealed.
Today, like almost every day on The Mountain, I took my morning coffee at the picnic table. A red-eyed vireo, a summer tanager and a Carolina wren serenaded me. Other than that, given calm winds, there was no sound.
And not a soul drove by on the road.
Fog rolled in just as Deb left for work. She reported that it was pretty soupy down below, and that she saw a total of two other vehicles during her seven-mile commute.
It was the traffic, I think, that made the biggest impression on us while visiting the central-Ohio town where we once lived. After a day or so, we concluded that more vehicles will drive by our former home, Second Chance Ranch, on any given weekday than will pass our homestead on The Mountain in the next 20 years.
I mean, where would you rather be?
The trick to bringing back as much as possible from our storage units, we figured, was to pack the bed of the Silverado with brutal efficiency. We decided to use those ubiquitous 27-gallon totes, black with yellow lids, then put other cargo around them.
I took measurements and made calculations before we left Ozarkansas — the bed would accommodate three between the wheel wells, and we could stack them two-high, for a total of six. Once we dug into the storage units, we found two totes that we could appropriate, which meant that we had to pick up four more.
Home Depot had ’em for less than ten bucks apiece. Made-in-USA, too. Of the two stores nearby, Reynoldsburg was closer than Canal Winchester, so that’s where we went.
We tossed four of the totes into a cart and, since we didn’t need anything else, we made a beeline for the self-checkout registers. Strangely, at least to us, each lane was staffed by an orange-aproned employee armed with a scanner. This wasn’t self-service at all.
And then it dawned on us — in that neighborhood, self-checkout had become an avenue for theft. Customers couldn’t be trusted not to sneak merchandise out the door without paying for it, and it was a big enough problem that management had to staff those lanes.
Considering where we were, I guess I wasn’t surprised.
The next day, after we determined that we could stack a third layer of totes in the bed, we drove a few more miles to the store in Canal Winchester to buy two more. Those self-checkout registers were unmanned.
Saturday, Monday and Thursday were our travel days. At this point in my life, my approach to covering lots of miles is to make long runs and few stops — slow and steady, essentially. I kept my speed at (or slightly below) the posted limit, sat back and enjoyed the ride.
Fuel mileage for those three days ended up at 20.3 mpg. We’ve done better than that on previous long drives, certainly. I blame the heavier light-truck tires (this was our first road trip since the Silverado was re-shod) and my reliance on cruise control (I can squeeze more miles from a gallon of gas than any electronic gizmo can).
Because we didn’t put undue pressure on ourselves, the trip was relaxing. We traveled within our stamina and capacity, and we let the miles come to us. It worked out great.
In Sunday’s post, I mentioned that on Thursday we narrowly missed being taken out by a wheel that flew off of a tractor-trailer. The experience didn’t rattle me at the time, but in the days since, I’ve found myself acknowledging that we were touched by The Fickle Finger of Fate.
Hundreds of miles earlier, I resisted the urge to put the spurs to the V8 and jump into the passing lane, choosing instead to let several vehicles go by before making my move. Did that simple choice make the hundred-yard difference between life and death? Were there others?
Our lives are collections of moments and encounters, choices and effects. Where we are at any point is the product of what came before.
I’m not suggesting that an instant of patience saved our lives. Countless other decisions just as easily could’ve put us in the path of a half-ton missile.
Trump turns his head, and a bullet strikes his ear instead of entering his brain.
Life can’t be engineered or choreographed. Yes, we should advance with purpose and resolve, but the chips will fall where they fall.
Timing. Fate.
It’s impossible to surf social media or switch on the news right now without bumping into another theory about the assassination attempt on Trump. Butler, Pennsylvania has become Dealey Plaza.
Two shooters. Three shooters. Inside job. On and on and on.
When facts are few (or absent), “experts” and kooks step forward to fill the void with their theories. Whether or not any of them turn out to be right, eventually, is beside the point.
My personal take on the incident would be just another theory. I won’t share it here. What I will tell you is that it’s informed by the insights of two individuals — one is a former professional sniper, with whom I’m well acquainted, and the other was at the rally when the shooting happened.
But if you’ve been waiting for me to give you my analysis of the assassination attempt and the myriad theories floating around, sorry, I’m not gonna do that.
Besides, I’m way too busy enjoying not having a new tick or chigger bite in almost two weeks.
I told you yesterday about the two fixed-blade knives I pulled from the collection salvaged from storage. I didn’t fuss with my folding knives ’til Friday afternoon, however, after the truck had been unloaded. Choosing which of those to carry and use first wasn’t easy.
See, I have many, many favorites. I love an old-school, two-blade slipjoint pocketknife. I own lots of locking folders that have served me well. It took some time, but I settled on one of each.
Because I often find myself needing more than just a cutting blade — a screwdriver, a scratch awl, a saw — I picked a Victorinox Farmer. It’s the modern equivalent of my very first pocketknives, which were Scout knives, and it’s as solid and reliable as anything I’ve ever carried.
The alox scales give it satisfying heft. This one is blue, a version produced in small numbers, and I paid probably $60 for it. I saw the same knife listed on eBay today for $175 to $275.
For a folder, I chose my Benchmade 556 Mini Griptilian. I’ve long considered it the perfect EDC, and though it’s a little light for serious woods work on The Mountain, for most day-to-day tasks it’ll be just fine.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB