Whose car is thatagain?
Damphewmore Acres, Kan.
My good friend and fellow “aggie columnist” Baxter Black wrote a recent “confession” column about his inability to remember specific characteristics of the various individual bovines and horses that he’s around regularly. The short story is that most of them just look the same to him. To me Bax’s situation is understandable due to the thousands of cow critters and horses that have gone under his unobservant eyes.
Now, I’ve got a similar confession to make. For the life of me — and for all of my life — I’ve been unable to remember and recognize the multitude of transportation vehicles driven by my family members and friends.
I don’t know why that is the situation, but it is. One explanation might be because I’m colorblind. But, that doesn’t explain why I can’t remember or recognize a neighbor’s pickup or car that I see on a regular basis. I can’t even remember or recognize if it’s a Ford, Chevy, Chrysler or any other make. I don’t remember crumpled fenders nor wrinkled tailgates nor the odd colored door.
And, the regularity that my friends and family members change vehicles doesn’t help either. Just when I get to the point — after maybe three years — that I can recognize a vehicle, the owner buys or trades for a different one and I’m back to square one.
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My “car blindness” is one of the reasons that I wave at everyone I meet on the road. It might be — or probably is — someone I know and I don’t want them to think I’m snobbish. So, I just smile and wave.
And, most embarrassing, sometimes I can’t recognize my own vehicle in a crowded parking lot.
Perhaps, my problem is genetic because even as a kid in the 1950s and 60s, I was never very interested fancy cars or trucks. Fender skirts, dangling dice from the mirror, chopped and channeled meant nuthin’ to me. I just wanted one that started regularly and was reliable enuf to get me where I wanted to go and that a date wouldn’t balk at riding in. I didn’t care what color or model it was — or if it was clean and waxed.
I’m still pretty much the same today. I’ve got two pickups I use. One is a rusty 1990 Ford F250 with only 110,000 actual miles on it. The other is a 1997 Ford F150 with 130,000 miles on it. So, my newest pickup is 22 years old. Both are filthy on the outside and not much better on the inside. I get the oil and filters changed semi-regularly and just drive them.
The annual “Big Burn” in the Flint Hills is nearing an end. Folks have been torching the grass for a couple of weeks. In the main, it’s been a good burning season with wet ground and manageable winds.
Here at Damphewmore Acres this week, I had the easiest, most worry-free, burn that I can recall. I joined with my neighbors to the west and north on burning day. The wind was from the east at less than 5 mph. So, it even kept the smoke from going across the road.
With a little help to backfire on my south border, it wuzn’t long before I could just throw a match in and sit back and let nature do the work.
I subscribe to the National Geographic magazine and like to read the articles and even the ads. One full page advertisement in the most recent issue caught my eye. It wuz a bold and brazen attempt to sell “oat milk.” At first I thought it read “oat meal,” and then, “goat milk,” but no, it’s oat milk.
I realize I’m old and out of touch with new fads and trends, but when did oat milk arrive on the scene? According to the ad, Oat Milk is the very best kind of milk one can drink for one’s health. No mention of what it tastes like. And, I guess it’s made by squeezing a couple of bushels of oat grains in the “milk” stage of development.
I’m a big fan of cow’s milk, cheese and ice cream. I’d even drink goat milk if I could find some near me. I like goat cheese. But, I think I’ll take a pass on Oat Milk. But, thanks for the info, NatGeo.
I’ve been invaded by immigrants. They arrived in mass this week. They did come from south of the border, but I’m talking about the good ol’, insect devouring, purple martins. They are in the process of evicting the squatters (starlings and sparrows) and getting their summer homes in order.
I read on the internet that the innovative Dutch dairy farmers are attempting to teach their dairy cows to pee in a designated “cow urinal.” “Good luck with that,” I say, based upon my experience as a kid growing up in a milking barn. I think the cows will just answer nature’s call regardless of any training.
I see Burger King is starting to test market “The Impossible Burger,” which is made out of plant material and “meat seasoning.” In other words, it’s fake meat. I used to like Burger King. Now? Not so much.
Words of wisdom for the week. Do twins ever realize that one of them is unplanned? Have a good ‘un. ❖
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