Thoughts from the ammo line

Ammo Grrrll is SAFE AT HOME! She writes:

Wonderful are the words “SAFE AT HOME,” whether in baseball or in life. The doctor I see for my annual checkup every five or six years always asks me if I “feel safe at home,” and I always assure him that I do. Then he asks whether there are firearms in the home. And I say, “Yes. That’s why I feel safe.”

Other lovely words are “Love,” “Peace,” “It’s Benign,” “Not Guilty,” and “Hillary will never be President!”

I had intended to take a leisurely five-and-a-half days, driving just 400 miles a day, to do the 2200 miles home, but in the end the “horse smelled the barn” and the car just kept going. On the second day of the journey home, I drove from Guthrie, OK all the way to Las Cruces, NM, just over 700 miles. The last 370 miles from Cruces to my front door felt like a trip to the grocery store.

Even though I had had an oil change and new filters while in Minnesota, my mileage home was not spectacular. The headwinds all the way were fierce. Those Dust Storm Alarmists I wrote about two weeks ago turned out to be not just whistlin’ Dixie. (If, indeed, it is even still legal to whistle Dixie. Or to use a Dixie cup. Or to listen to the Dixie Chicks. It’s only a matter of time…)

On a trip like this, I must maintain eternal vigilance for all the things the Road Sign People have taken the time to warn me about: falling rock, the aforementioned dust storms, ice on bridges, accidentally killing highway workers and incurring that darned $10,000 fine, and hitchhiking escapees from prison. It’s a lot to keep in mind.

Mr. AG knows in his heart that one day I will have the following conversation with a hitchhiker:

Me: Where you headed?
HHiker: Oh, nowhere special. Just out of here.
Me: You aren’t by any chance an escaped prisoner?
HHiker: Ha, ha, certainly not! I just like orange jumpsuits.
Me: That’s what I figured. Hop in. Could you hold my purse and gun while I put in this CD? Safety first, right?

In truth, any self-respecting hitchhiker would hurl himself from the car the fourth time through on “repeat” of the soundtrack from Man of La Mancha.

I am also ever alert for what I call Nuggets of Joy. They aren’t hard to find. This is such a spectacularly beautiful country. Leaving Guthrie, OK on a peaceful Sunday at 6 am, with a yuge full moon still hanging low in the sky, and a developing fuchsia sunrise in my rearview, I couldn’t help but say a little prayer of thanks. I had the road mostly to myself until well after noon and finally figured out why. Everybody in Oklahoma and Texas was in church.

There is also plenty of Fodder for Fun. On Hwy 44 West, I passed a liquor store that offered to “cash your paycheck here.” What a service – loved by wives everywhere! What could possibly go wrong? A few miles down the road from that, I noticed a sign for The Feedlot Restaurant. Surely, customers in cattle country must be aware that the sole purpose of a “feedlot” is to fatten the cattle for market? Is this an attractive inducement for a restaurant?

Not long after there were signs ordering drivers to “Pull over for poultry inspection.” I did not think they meant me, but after 3 weeks in a car that made the Joads’ vehicle look tidy, it seemed possible that it could contain a live chicken.

I stopped for a meal in that gray area between breakfast and lunch when thrifty restaurant owners typically send most of their wait staff home. I was the only person in the little cafe, save for one earnest young waiter who felt I would like to chat.

The first thing he asked me was “Are you a truck driver?” Now I took no offense for several reasons. First,.truck driving is a noble profession and I have seen some women drivers, though usually in couples and not alone. Secondly, it is kind of like being asked if you are pregnant. True, it probably means you are chubby, but it is also flattering in late, late middle age to be thought CAPABLE of getting pregnant. So, it’s a toss-up.

In this instance I was wearing my second-best boots, new bluejeans, and a pro-Second Amendment t-shirt under a plaid shirt from Dillards’ Reba collection. I would not be mistaken for Donna Reed, in her ever-present heels and pearls, but I thought I looked plenty spiffy. What would make the little dear think that a five foot tall woman on the wrong side of 70 was a truck-driver, I could not guess. But I determined to up my game and possibly wear makeup and a dress for the rest of the journey.

The experience also made me think about applying for a part-time job driving truck, since I am a Driving Machine and evidently already own the outfit.

Here would be my application: elderly woman seeks part-time employment for short or long hauls. She has no CDL license, but if pulled over will declare the truck to be a “Sanctuary Truck” not subject to the laws applicable to The Little People. Speaking of little, she is not only old, but short, and will need some sort of ladder or hoist and derrick to get into the truck. She does get lost at least once virtually every day of a trip, even with an exasperated Garmin. But, on the plus side, hits road workers only infrequently, and always carries $10,000 in cash just in case. In the event of engine trouble, or a flat, she will have no choice but to sit crying beside the road until some welcome toxic male comes along. She will need every Tuesday off for her regular poker game.

When you see a semi whizzing down the road with no obvious driver visible over the windshield, double clutchin’ and playing with the horn obnoxiously, that might be me. Feel free to wave.