The moonshiner dropped by last night with a quart jar of his specialty, Apple Pie. “Do you know what you’re lettin’ yourself in for?” he asked. He looked for all the world, like a concerned father. “Hit’s gonna be 17 inches. Seven-teen,” he repeated. “That’s more’n last time.”
In the lane, his battered old pickup rumbled and sputtered while he stood on the porch stoop talking about the trouble I might be in.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Just might be here awhile, that’s all. Guess you’ll be stuck at home, huh?” I nodded toward his old truck.
“Why that truck got me to work the morning after the last big snow,” he said, indignant. “It gits places don’t nobody git in the snow and ice.”
Clearly I’d stepped on some toes.
“Well, good,” I said, trying to soothe his ruptured ego. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Of course, it’s about noon and I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him coming along the lane. Surely he wouldn’t be ready to risk this snow…
2 comments:
How much snow did you finally end up with?
8"- Not even close to the Moonshiner's dire prediction of 17". But then, ain't that just like a man to go overestimating his potential?!
Post a Comment