I asked my dad if I needed to do an intervention on this mid-retirement spending, and he referenced a recent consolation purchase of some whiskey and some Coke.
"Now we just sit and slur our words to eachother. We don't know if we're mad or happy."
Incidentally, the guy that sold the truck to my dad is the same guy that sold my Great-Grandpa Pete his red Rambler fifty years ago. He told my parents that he used to buy potatoes in 100 pound sacks from my Great-Grandpa Pete. If when he weighed out the 100 pound sack it weighed a little over, Pete would take a potato out and cut it in half to make exactly 100 pounds.
Legend has it that Great-Grandpa Pete sold his sacks of potatoes for $3, whether the going-rate was $5 or $1, Great-Grandpa Pete sold for $3. If you wanted to be his customer, fine. If not, that was fine too. But he wouldn't do business with new people. Including his own sons, who came to him to buy some potatoes so they could start their own potato farm. He said no. They were like, "Seriously Dad?", and he said, "I don't know you. I've never done business with you." And they had to get their potatoes elsewhere.
|Can't wait to go huntin' for Lady Slippers in this beast|
When will the lady slippers bloom? Will you be there? Your dad knows where they are.
This reminds me: there should be a reality show about pouring concrete. I cannot explain why I feel this way; I just do.
(This may be the weirdest comment I've ever left on any blog. Ever.)
I might miss the Lady Slippers this year. UGH that is so depressing.
I'm starting to think my dad needs a reality show. However I know it would offend way too many people.
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