Weekly Photo Challenge: Free Spirit

As I watched Layton pack his little bags into Pink Freud, a 1938 Ford, I thought, “He’s a Free Spirit, an Adventurer – Indiana Jones in a Hot Rod.”

I’ll skip over the fact that he had arrived at our house with a pack of luncheon meat and cheese in his Computer Bag, but had forgot to bring a coat of any kind. From our house, he was leaving on a week’s road trip in a car with no side windows, no heat and a broken windshield wiper. (Alberta to British Columbia in early September – rain or snow are both possible this time of year.)  Pink Freud’s battery was dead,  but once boosted the engine roared to life. With a cheerful wave, Layton and Freud were gone.

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More Vehicle Stories:   1980 Corvette -  Wendy’s last ride.
Harley’s First Adventure – Our first trip on the new bike
A Perfect Storm – Harley and the Car Guy meet the ditch

Fifty Shades of Grey

‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ - I wish I had thought of that title for my blog. Can you imagine how many visitors I’d get every day? Disappointed visitors, of course, when they discovered that fifty shades of grey described my hair colour and not my review of a hugely successful erotic novel – which I haven’t read.

No, to me fifty shades of grey describes the colour of the headstones in  an old cemetery. (This one is in Rodemack, France.)

Headstone inscriptions don’t usually refer to the deceased person’s steamy sex life, but this one in Moultrie, Georgia did (assuming it is true):

Here lies the father of 29.
He would have had more
But he didn’t have time.

Fifty shades of grey also describes the rocks and sand on a beach. (This one is at Deception Pass in Washington.)

Beaches are thought to be very romantic places, though spring break in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida isn’t so much about romance as ‘Sex on the Beach’.

An early morning fog at Lake Conroe, Texas. A comfy Tete`-a-tete´ chair waits for the couple to sit and enjoy their morning coffee. The air is warm, the fog creates an intimate envelope of fifty shades of grey.

I have many more photos that are fifty shades of grey and I suppose human intimacy could have taken place at one time or another in many of them. But I really don’t want to know about it, any more than I want to read erotic mommy porn. So, look somewhere else for a review of “Fifty Shades of Grey!”

Gray hairs seem to my fancy like the soft light of the moon, silvering over the evening of life.
- Jean Paul Richter

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Scott Feschuk, a sometimes very funny writer for Canada’s MACLEAN’S magazine, wrote a single chapter of a book he called Fifty Shades of Eh. Here is an excerpt:

I gaze upon him with my intrepid eyes. My mouth, which is also intrepid, curls into a sly smile. “
Did you remember the clamps?” I ask.

“Canadian Tire was closed. But I found a bunch of clothespins in the garage.”

I swoon. My breathing quickens. My heart beats a frantic tattoo as I surrender myself to the anticipation of languid erotic pleasures and several hours of splinter removal.

Give Me the Good Old Parking Meter, Please!

You know, somebody actually complimented me on my driving today. They left a little note on the windscreen, it said ‘Parking Fine.’
- Tommy Cooper -

Parking Meters used to look a bit like Jelly Bean Machines.

I’ve become the family chauffeur since The Car Guy had his motorcycle accident.  I don’t mind driving, though it would be much more pleasant if all those drivers who never do a shoulder check would stop trying to occupy my car’s geographic location. Arriving safely at our destination, and finding a parking spot is always a relief.

The true challenge comes when it is time to pay for the parking. Gone are the days when I handed my ticket and money to a kindly attendant in a little booth at the exit or plugged my coins into a friendly machine that looked like it could dispense jelly beans. No, today I am faced with the pure evil of electronic ticket machines. They are the silent but efficient guardians of the place where I will abandon my vehicle in order to sit in a Doctor’s office for eternity plus a 3 minute consult.

There is no universal parking ticket machine. Each parking lot is the proud owner of a machine that was designed by someone who failed ‘your grandma might park here some day 101′. This means that each machine is unique in: the order in which you insert your ticket and credit card; the direction you insert said cards; the location where the pertinent buttons are; and the cryptic little symbols that replace a language I might understand. After three less than successful attempts to master three machines in three different lots, I figured out that the easiest way to pay the machine is to turn to the person directly behind me in line and say, “This will be much faster for both of us if you just show me how to pay this &%@#$ ticket.”

There was a time, not so many years ago, that I could board a plane in the Middle East – three layovers and 30 some hours  later, I’d be back at my Canadian home. All by myself, I could buy tickets, change planes, ride trains, even stay in a hotel.  Now I can barely negotiate a trip to the city if it means I have to park somewhere. How pathetic.

If your access to health care involves your leaving work and driving somewhere and parking and waiting for a long time, that’s not going to promote healthiness.
- Larry Page -

Weekly Photo Challenge: Together

Together forever (or more likely just a very long time) – a pair of rock columns in Bandelier National Monument in New Mexico. I think they look like a couple of intrepid explorers, one sitting, one standing,  on a ridge at the top of the valley.

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Another Rock Story: Skipping Stones, Throwing Rocks