I stood on my left foot as the clock neared midnight.
It was as if I were a pink flamingo.
I wore pink socks, immersing myself in the role.
Actually, I wore pink socks because my yellow, orange and purple socks were all in the wash.
When “12:00” showed up on the clock, I put my right foot down. I started the New Year off on the right foot.
The radio played “Auld Lang Syne” by Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians. It’s a famous Scottish poem/song written by Robert Burns, which translates roughly to “My car’s low tire pressure warning light is on.”
That means your vehicle is due for an essential oils change.
The ball had dropped, and people all over the country yelled, “Fumble!”
I didn’t paint the town red on New Year’s Eve, but I ate red Jell-O. I wore those pink socks while doing so.
There’s good and bad news about a new year. The bad news is we don’t get a do-over. The good news is that the mosquito risk is low on New Year’s Day. The best thing is that we’re still here.
I sat at the Table of Infinite Knowledge in the Fuel’s Paradise gas station early on New Year’s Eve day, watching others drink coffee, when this conversation took place. “This year, I’m going to quit smoking cigars, give up drinking, eat healthier and exercise regularly.”
“Why,” another asked.
“OK, you’ve talked me out of it. I’ll plan on being a common noisemaker at midnight by snoring in front of the TV.”
As I looked out the window at happy motorists filling their automobiles with gas, I realized I missed gas station attendants. On another day, my rental car was thirsty, and I found a Wawa convenience store. I pulled up on the wrong side of the pump. The indicator for the gas tank’s side was a small arrow on the dashboard’s fuel gauge, but my muddled mind thought I was driving my car and not a rental. That necessitated a semicircular drive to get to the correct side. That took a little time as I needed to allow other vehicles to clear from my path. Once I was in the proper position, I jumped out to pump myself some gas. I was pumped. Then I saw the Wawa fuel assistant. New Jersey is the only state where it’s illegal for drivers to pump their own gas. I said, “I’m not lost, but I was bewildered for three days,” a quote attributed to Jim Bridger, a legendary American explorer and mountain man, as an excuse for my trip around the gas pumps.
The friendly attendant smiled, accustomed to dealing with dimwits. He pumped the gas and cleaned my windshield. It was a mini version of full-service.
I miss the service stations. When a vehicle ran over that air hose, a driveway alarm, which was a rubber hose laid on the ground, the tires compressed the air and sent it traveling to a bell, causing it to ring. The ding-ding alerted an attendant, called a gas jockey if you were related to him, who came out to give full-service with a smile. He often had his name stitched on his shirt, which wasn’t always his shirt. He had a rag hanging out of his rear pocket as he pumped the gas, washed the windows, and checked the oil, radiator level and tire pressure. He gave directions, told a joke, and offered the latest news and weather. I miss that. When January’s temperature falls to the temperature of liquid nitrogen, it’d be nice to stay in the car.
It’s a goofy world. My neighbor Crandall was planning on visiting the gym 365 times on December 31 to keep the resolution he made last year. On New Year’s Day, some people already have their Christmas lights up.
The plot thickens. My wife bought a broom. A new broom sweeps clean. I’ll try to stay out of its way.
As the Old Year, now an old man, is led away in a straitjacket, I resolve not to embroider anything in Mandarin on a pillow.
May your troubles last as long as your resolutions.
May the New Year treat you kindly.
Photo by Al Batt
Leave a Reply