Hyper-Miling?

I’ve always been kind of a slo-poke while driving and right now I should be sporting a bumpersticker: “ ’SCUSE ME, I’M DRIVING FOR MILEAGE” Lately I'm shifting to neutral on some of my commute stretches where it makes sense. A truck with a boat-rack needs to sip sometimes. Haven't had the guide-boat in the water yet this summer. Have you read about trucking companies adding/adjusting governors to limit the tractor’s speed to 62 mph? It’s not supposed to make a trucker’s run much longer but really save fuel . Commuters who say they’re always running late can’t see themselves slowing-down I guess. On my usual run to and from, it’s people and other vehicles, including bicycles that keep my governor engaged and my head on a swivel.

Staycation Blues?

DIDN’T:
Sort through clutter
Boat
Enjoy a campfire
Drive-in
Fish
Go camping
Mow the lawn
Paint a darn thing
Eat fried clams (whole belly)
Split wood
Save with the tax-free weekend
Read as much as I wanted to
Go to regular recycling
Burn up much gas
Sort fishing gear
Tighten wind-vane directional
Put old futon out at driveway
Do enough laundry
Have to sort any done laundry
Weed-whack
Go to dog show
Spit roast a turkey
Fix the gutter drip edges

DID:
get happy news about her mammogram
clear utility trailer of junk metal
wash boat
celebrate my and my friend’s big 5-0
boat-racked the rig
sort boat stuff
got oar bag
have dinner with friends, twice
grill (x3)
drink a beer (x?)
make a metal recycler trip
put the rubbish out
lop-off a small oak (by mistake)
swing a pick-ax and work a spud
watch 5 episodes of ‘America’s Test Kitchen’
get surprised by the gift of time-off from mowing
enjoy time with the all healed Spyder Boy kitty
lament the loss of room ‘00’ at the Ellis Inn
start reading new books; and finish them
get to say yes to a moose hunt

Coming Soon: Band Names and Magic Hat top lines

Uncle Firmin's Last Ride

As Uncle Firmin headed back toward home on Monday night, I followed in his wake.

It was a gentle ride as the wheelmaster steadily and gently negotiated the curves and hills and glides and stops. A practiced feel of the big vehicle’s ways on the road was obvious.
Many had made this journey and many more would.

I thought at this hour of the night, in this direction, the big station wagon would probably be doing what it was designed for. There was no fold-down way-back seat. It took a long downhill stretch for my pickups lights to confirm: Someone’s going home. The shroud, visible briefly, covered Uncle Firmin on his last ride down Spear Street.

Showing respect I hoped, I followed with extra distance between us, aiming not to add glare to the rearview, leaving the funeral director to concentrate on the road ahead with its many possible hazards. Critters big and small cross in several places along Spear at all hours. Oncoming traffic crosses the centerline all the time, at least bicyclists probably wouldn’t be out this late. I thought, it must be rare for a hearse driver to be involved in an accident and rarer still for the fault to be his or hers. A smooth, gentle trip toward a families’ love is the mission, I’ve been told.

Was there anyone with the driver? Did they talk? What about? Are the topics always respectful too? If the funeral home people knew their cherished passenger, can they share a last joke or story without regret? I don’t think they play the radio.