With the ice closing in on the rivers and lakes up here in the Drizzle Creek District, it about time to either go into hibernation or migrate. My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, says since I’m a grumpy old bear and have a pretty good roll of fat around my middle, hibernation would probably be my best bet. But on the other hand, she needs someone to chauffeur her south so migration is the better option.
With that decision behind us, I have been working on my driving skills so I’ll fit in with the standard mix of drivers in the Deep South. You’d think the rules of the road would be universal, but they’re not. Once that salt air off the Gulf hits you, your brain as well as the finish on your car begins to rot at an increased rate. Here’s the scenario.
For the first five hundred miles the status quo continues. You use your signal lights, drive in the proper lane, and keep a sensible speed of fifteen mph (no km here... we’re in the U.S.-) over the speed limit. This is of course, if the road and driving conditions are good and the traffic light. If it is snowing or better yet freezing drizzle, with limited visibility and bumper-to-bumper traffic, it’s pedal to the metal with one foot hovering over the brake as you watch for brake lights about ten cars ahead. The noise beside me is the Pearl, her head covered with a veil, wailing ‘Hail Mary’s’.
By the time you hit Nashville, things have mellowed out a bit. With a country music station (there are no other genres near Nashville) blaring full blast, you crack a window, and inhale deeply of the warm humid smog rising off the river. The traffic’s still heavy, so you keep the hammer down and weave from lane to lane, in a well-choreographed automotive ballet. Use of the signal lights ceased someplace north of the Tennessee line. Their only function now is to keep time to the beat of ‘I walk the line’.
Finally you hit the hill country of Alabama and Northern Florida. Off the Interstate now, you search behind every clump of brush and tree for stop signs and reduced speed limits. You can bet Sheriff Buford T. Belly or one of his deputies will be on the hunt to bolster the county’s pension fund. If stopped you’ll need a translator, as even Jeff Foxsworthy couldn’t understand the redneck dialect spoken in these parts
As the coast comes into sight, your worries evaporate. Back amongst your own kind, you only have to watch out for the occasional ‘rebel’ plate. All the rest are from Ontario or Michigan. But remember, dawdle in the passing lane and don’t use your signal lights- that would only confuse the issue.
Back in Drizzle Creek at the Bakery, the winter will pass, as it should. Lies at the debating table will be of the most profound nature. Pickle finally managed the bag a deer. A month after the fact, it has gained 100 lbs and 10 points. His neighbour Dot will have her hands full all winter making sure he minds his ‘p and qs’. The Runt will keep the long john population in the pastry shelf under control. Dr. Goodwrench will continue to evade meaningful employment. Tiny Tookalook will be patrolling the side streets and back alleys. Watch for the footprints under your window.
The only one missing other than yours truly will be Moose. He’s off to Ottawa to advise Stephen Heartless and Jim Flabbergast on how to make friends and influence people.
If you’re down at the Beach, make sure you drop around for a visit. You know the address, right? Otherwise see you in the spring.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
By the numbers
Got a new credit card the other day. The scanners wouldn’t read the magnetic strip on the old one anymore. That’s either due to the radioactive high-test coffee down at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek or all the radiation from the hopped up cell phones all those railroaders around the debating table carry- at least two each.
No matter, a couple days before the card arrived, and official looking letter with strange markings arrived. I hesitated to open it suspecting another vicious assault from Infernal Revenue. Why don’t those birds just look at the stock market and realize they’re beating a dead horse. You can’t get blood from a stone. Even poor Murray says the bailiff may be along any day and he’s switching from heating his house with gas to burning share certificates- they’re cheaper.
I finally drew up enough courage to crack open that first letter. It was a top-secret message from a spy agency. “Lift the flap, and we will reveal your secret code number to use your new credit card,” it stated.
I lifted the flap and peered through the semi transparent plastic frame. There were some faint hen-scratchings that appeared to be either Greek or Chinese. After studying them without luck for several minutes I reversed the paper and voila, there they were- murky, but legible- barely.
The instructions explained I must memorize the number and then destroy the paper. I would need this number for every future purchase to be made with this card. I spent a full day repeating the number, burning it indelibly in my brain. Then I destroyed the paper. Two days later the card arrived. I dutifully activated it and destroyed the old one.
That afternoon the phone rang and like all smart consumers, I screen my calls, waiting for the ‘Do not Call’ registry to kick in. The answerer came on. It was for my wife, the Pearl of the Orient. The voice said,” Pearl call me at 3311.”
The next caller left another message for my wife,”Gimme a shout back at 4798.”
The next caller, “Ring me back at 6745”. And so it went the rest of the afternoon, one message after another. I recorded every one of them in that steel trap- my mind. Paper is for wimps.
When the Pearl breezed in later that afternoon, she glanced at the empty inbox on the answering machine and questioned, “What no messages for me? I was expecting some calls today.”
Tidy sort that I am I had of course erased all the calls from the answering machine.
“Yeah the d#$%^ thing was ringing steady. Couldn’t hardly get in a good nap,” I wheezed in my best ‘put upon’ manner.
“But they refused to leave any messages. Said they’d call back,” I lied as I quickly donned my hat and coat and headed off for a heavy-duty information session at the Bakery.
Later I stopped to pick up a case of wobbly pop and a bottle of snakebite remedy. After all we were soon to head south and I wanted to be medically prepared with my immune system properly challenged. I whipped out that new credit card. The clerk swiped and handed me the pad. I punched in 3311.
“Incorrect PIN, Try again” blinked the screen.
I punched in 4798, my confidence frustrated but unshaken.
“Incorrect PIN, Try again, idiot,” blinked the screen.
Insulted, I quickly punched in 6745.
The screen began to pulse and a siren wailed.
“You have entered an incorrect PIN three times in succession. Your card has been permanently cancelled and your bank account frozen for 30 days. Please contact our head office in Trawna, in person immediately. Bring your passport, income tax returns for the past three years, 4 pieces of photo identification, and three witnesses who can verify you are who you claim to be,” scrolled the message on the machine.
There was a final clatter and a whirr as the built-in shredder spit out pieces of plastic and the screen scrolled one final message, “Your account will be debited $100.00 for replacement of this card. Thank you for using your Wheezer Card… for everything else there’s cash.”
No matter, a couple days before the card arrived, and official looking letter with strange markings arrived. I hesitated to open it suspecting another vicious assault from Infernal Revenue. Why don’t those birds just look at the stock market and realize they’re beating a dead horse. You can’t get blood from a stone. Even poor Murray says the bailiff may be along any day and he’s switching from heating his house with gas to burning share certificates- they’re cheaper.
I finally drew up enough courage to crack open that first letter. It was a top-secret message from a spy agency. “Lift the flap, and we will reveal your secret code number to use your new credit card,” it stated.
I lifted the flap and peered through the semi transparent plastic frame. There were some faint hen-scratchings that appeared to be either Greek or Chinese. After studying them without luck for several minutes I reversed the paper and voila, there they were- murky, but legible- barely.
The instructions explained I must memorize the number and then destroy the paper. I would need this number for every future purchase to be made with this card. I spent a full day repeating the number, burning it indelibly in my brain. Then I destroyed the paper. Two days later the card arrived. I dutifully activated it and destroyed the old one.
That afternoon the phone rang and like all smart consumers, I screen my calls, waiting for the ‘Do not Call’ registry to kick in. The answerer came on. It was for my wife, the Pearl of the Orient. The voice said,” Pearl call me at 3311.”
The next caller left another message for my wife,”Gimme a shout back at 4798.”
The next caller, “Ring me back at 6745”. And so it went the rest of the afternoon, one message after another. I recorded every one of them in that steel trap- my mind. Paper is for wimps.
When the Pearl breezed in later that afternoon, she glanced at the empty inbox on the answering machine and questioned, “What no messages for me? I was expecting some calls today.”
Tidy sort that I am I had of course erased all the calls from the answering machine.
“Yeah the d#$%^ thing was ringing steady. Couldn’t hardly get in a good nap,” I wheezed in my best ‘put upon’ manner.
“But they refused to leave any messages. Said they’d call back,” I lied as I quickly donned my hat and coat and headed off for a heavy-duty information session at the Bakery.
Later I stopped to pick up a case of wobbly pop and a bottle of snakebite remedy. After all we were soon to head south and I wanted to be medically prepared with my immune system properly challenged. I whipped out that new credit card. The clerk swiped and handed me the pad. I punched in 3311.
“Incorrect PIN, Try again” blinked the screen.
I punched in 4798, my confidence frustrated but unshaken.
“Incorrect PIN, Try again, idiot,” blinked the screen.
Insulted, I quickly punched in 6745.
The screen began to pulse and a siren wailed.
“You have entered an incorrect PIN three times in succession. Your card has been permanently cancelled and your bank account frozen for 30 days. Please contact our head office in Trawna, in person immediately. Bring your passport, income tax returns for the past three years, 4 pieces of photo identification, and three witnesses who can verify you are who you claim to be,” scrolled the message on the machine.
There was a final clatter and a whirr as the built-in shredder spit out pieces of plastic and the screen scrolled one final message, “Your account will be debited $100.00 for replacement of this card. Thank you for using your Wheezer Card… for everything else there’s cash.”
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