Two hundred sixty miles for cake, but it was a really good cake.
Discombobulated is my life, mostly shot from the hip on a handheld camera without film. It would be expensive to find someone to edit it to make it understandable to a normal person. So, I strive on, unedited, feeling secure that a documentary of my life shouldn’t be viewed anyway.
Something hellacious swept over my home, taking down the S.O. like a tranquilizer dart to an otherwise healthy, lithe black puma. We determined we would not take that malady to dinner at the kid’s house for the number one son’s birthday dinner.
After canceling our drive-in northern dinner plans, I discussed it with the part-time lady of the house. We determined I should drive toward Canada for a slice of cake and then return home.
I had already loaded the boy’s birthday gift in the truck bed, and I’d be stuck with it there when I needed to go to the building supply store later this week to pick up more gold-gilded two-by-fours before having the clerks turn me upside down and shake out all the spare change I’ve been saving for coffee. I needed to move it from my truck to his house. There was only one way to do it.
While the gift sounds expensive because it’s too big for the cab, it was a very inexpensive and practical gift—nuff said.
I called Sammy. He’d not seen my son and his wife’s new place smack dab in the middle of a rolling meadow, surrounded by a beautiful stand of windblown Norway pines, apple trees, and the occasional remaining spud left lonely on the tilled soil after the late autumn harvest. Some might call it a farm, and it is, but without resident cows, it is hard for me to type that word.
I digress.
Sammy recently retired from his full-time job and felt that blowing off the stink for a ride to Aroostook County would be a great way to kill a Friday night.
Mainers drive places. While the rest of the civilized world is happy with a two-hour long, ten-mile commute into the city, sitting, crawling forward, and whining, Mainers actually move at a pretty good clip during those two hours, making arriving one hundred thirty miles north of here a pretty easy prospect.
We depressed the cruise control button at four miles above the posted limit. I’d have taken it up to five over, but the moose between here and there deserve a fighting chance, and so do I.
Our arrival surprised all attendees—except my Daughter-in-Love—and dinner dishes were being removed from the table. The cake was served in slabs that would choke a moose. However, I had no trouble getting the decadently moist chunk of homemade goodness down my gullet. Sammy, of course, had no problem either.
Since my son moved away from the house years ago, I’ve slowly delivered many things he left behind when he split for the State Police Academy. Each trip north allows me to drop something else off, pretending it’s a gift. Secretly, I’m simply downsizing.
After the cake, I spent a few minutes with my granddaughter, but many other interesting people surrounded her, so our time was brief. However, my grandson got up from a little nap shortly before I became reacquainted with my driver’s seat. We conferred on several matters of importance, and then we said our goodbyes.
Unfortunately, snow squalls ripped across the windshield and chilled macadam for much of our southbound Interstate travel, making cruise control an unneeded option.
As any good Mainer with some saddle time knows, driving in squalls creates a bit of nystagmus in the eyeballs. It’s like looking out the windshield of the U.S.S. Enterprise during warp-speed flights through a galaxy of tiny frozen stars.
As for the word nystagmus, you’re welcome. Ask my sister Google about it.
We left my place at four p.m., as darkness enveloped us, pulling back into my driveway shy of nine-thirty. It was a short commute for cake, the kids, their kids, and a couple of pictures of my son reenacting his epic blowout of the double candles.
Photo of the photo op taken by Sammy. I slept well last night.
Have a good Saturday.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
P.S.- the SO is fine.
To keep the train rolling, we mention from time to time that we run on fumes provided by the readers of this page and my Facebook page. We do that through donations in the BuyMeACoffee App, which can be found by clicking the yellow banner on this website. We cannot ask for support on Facebook, but your membership here also keeps that candle lit. Recently, I was asked why much of what is provided for reading fodder here is the same as on Facebook. Well, it’s simple. About twenty-two thousand members are here, and many do not use Facebook. So, no matter where you read it, the support for making the powdered sugar doughnuts comes from the BuyMeACoffee app. Consider joining as an annual member of the Royal Order of Dooryard Visitors. One-time gifts to support the words are also happily accepted. We will never charge to read it here or over on social media; it’s voluntary. Many cannot, for darn good reason, support the cause. It’ll always be free, but your help is so appreciated. Thanks so much. TC