Incidents

Here we are last Saturday (December 16) afternoon, quietly ambling up State Route 444, out of Bloomfield, having just mailed an envelope at the old Holcomb post-office (now the Bloomfield post-office, since Holcomb has reattached to Bloomfield after being separated for eons).
State Route 444 is the two-lane highway between Victor and Bloomfield (previously to Holcomb). The speed-limit is 55 mph, and can be easily done.
I wick the bucktooth-bathtub up to 60 or so, what I normally do, and as I climb the hill out of town, an angry intimidator falls in behind and climbs my bumper.
The agitated driver is pogoing up-and-down like a frenzied monkey, apparently using the steering-wheel as a prop. The car is a tiny mauve Isuzu sedan, four-doors.
444 goes up, crosses a plateau, and then goes down approaching a crossroad: Boughton Road on the left side, and Brace Road on the right.
I need to turn onto Boughton Road to access the so-called elitist country-club (Boughton Park).
300 yards (that’s 300 yards, baby; three football fields) from the intersection, I flip on the left-turn signal so Intimidator can use the right shoulder to pass me.
About 100 yards before the turn I begin slowing: I got dogs in the back, and I can’t take the turn at 152 mph.
But Intimidator is still on my bumper — there’s plenty of pavement to pass on the right.
Then as I begin the turn, Intimidator lays on the horn and flips me the bird.
Sure enough; W-04 on the rear-bumper.

At the park we are walking our dogs down a woody trail off the road — the dogs consider it part of the route.
The path is flat a ways, and then descends a slight grade. That grade is also a wash.
Two oldsters are climbing the grade; hubby with Granny about 20 yards behind.
I’m leading, so hubby says hello, and I quietly acknowledge. Then Granny bellows “Good Morning;” and then snaps “Wassa matter? Doncha say ‘Good morning?’”
Boughton Park is being taken over by suburban namby-pambies.
“What I shoulda said is ‘he had a stroke, and can’t talk,’” Linda said.
We can just imagine: “Oh, I wish I’d known;” or is it “ice-flow for you, baby!”
“Judge not lest ye be judged.”

“Ice-flow for you, baby!” is my loving brother’s (in Boston) response to anyone with disabilities.

My brother in Delaware brags his turbocharged Volvo will do “152 mph.”

Over-and-over I have seen Dubya-stickers on the back bumpers of crazy drivers: a white Buick ran a red-light; a black Wagoneer cut me off; a black Jetta with its driver multitasking (mascara in the mirror, yammering on her cellphone, reading the morning paper — for crying out loud) nearly ran me off the road — I can’t remember all the incidents.