Fire Truck Mail Box

This week's post was written by Old Man Blue, a talented writer and number cruncher from the north. Mr. Blue is also my father. But, I'll let him introduce himself.

I’ve been reading this Bluegrass and Blueberry Blog for some time now, and I thought it might just be relevant to do a little guest-blogging. Mrs. Blue said she would let me (of course, she hasn’t seen any of my blogs yet), but before I begin, here’s a little introduction.

Mrs. Blue has already told you that she was raised in the Northeast and is a fairly recent transplant to Dixie. Well, I can vouch for that. In fact, for better or worse I had a little to do with that raising. Unlike Mrs. Blue, however, I’m still settled here north of the Mason Dixon Line with no intention of moving anytime soon. I’m a fourth generation New Englander, living within 25 miles of where I grew up. In fact, four of my six siblings live within a mile of the house we grew up in, and one of them lives in that same house that my great-grandfather bought one hundred years ago. So I thought it might add a little perspective if I give some occasional insight on the staid life I live up here, and the life Mrs. Blue was immersed in for the first twenty-five years or so of her life. Perhaps it will help explain her unique way of looking at things (though, in fact, I’m not sure they can, or need to, be explained), or maybe it will just give me an outlet to let off some steam (most likely the latter). In any case, I’ve told her that I’d try to put together something once a month or so, so that’s exactly what I’ll try to do. I don’t intend, necessarily, to try to respond to her topics. In fact, I’m not sure what I intend to do in terms of picking what I write about. As I said, I’ll do my best to make them in some way relevant to Bluegrass and Blueberries, but how exactly I’ll do that… well we’ll just have to see how it goes.

Now I noticed that most of Mrs. Blue’s blogging is mostly about her experiences. And that’s what makes it interesting. But when I think about what I would write (including this thought right here) I realize that it’s about ideas and opinions, but not experiences. But whoa, who wants to read about that? So I guess I’ve got to write about experiences. And maybe once I do that I can maybe start to sneak in some ideas and opinions and nobody will notice. But hold on; who says people are going to be interested in my experiences? Well, I guess more interested than they’ll be in my ideas and opinions. Nobody cares about opinions. Okay then, so here goes.

So I went to work today… No, that’s not gonna go anywhere. Nothing interesting there. Maybe if I start with a zinger. How about this…

The other day I saw a mailbox in the shape of a fire truck. Yeah, imagine that. We were walking our dogs, my wife and me, around the block and we came across a new mailbox (we pretty much know all the mailboxes on the block that we walk, and there aren’t any interesting ones… until now). That’s right; it was a fire truck on a post. Fire engine red, ladders, big black tires, the real deal. So we’re admiring this fire engine mailbox, (no, honestly, we were pretty amazed by the damn thing) and we see the mailbox owner, Scott is his name, and of course he’s a fireman. He’s working in the driveway, right outside his garage, down a hill from the road where we’re standing and we called out to him, “Nice mailbox!”

Being rightfully proud of his new mailbox, Scott comes up the driveway to talk to us. He’s a friendly guy, and he gives us the story of the mailbox, and we talk about that and a few other things for a few minutes before getting back on our walk. Well the next time around (we do laps because it’s a small block, and because of the traffic and the way the roads are laid out, it’s the only good block to walk dogs on) Scott comes running back up his driveway to us.

“I forgot to tell you,” he pants, “I’m having a bonfire tonight and I’m gonna tap a new log of Sam Summer. Should be around 6:30.”

Well for you non-North Easterners, that’s Sam Adams Summer Ale, and a log is a small keg. Now I’m not a huge Sam Adams beer fan, but Sam Summer is its own thing. And Sam on tap, well you just can’t say no to Sam Summer on tap. You see, Scott’s got a keg-erator. I think it’s just an old fridge that he drilled a hole in the door and jammed a beer tap into the door. But however you cut it, he’s got draft beer 24/7. In fact the first time we ever met Scott, a few years back, was another time we were doing laps and he was too. He was pushing a stroller with his daughter in it and he had a glass of beer in his hand. I didn’t think it odd to be walking with a bottle or can of beer, but a glass? So I asked him, half joking, if he had a keg at home. And sure enough, he did.

Anyway, around 7 p.m. (I didn’t want to look too anxious) I find myself amblin’ on over to Scott’s house with my 99 cent Dollar Store beer glass in my pocket. I show up and his friend Jeff is already there, sipping his Sam Summer out of a Toby Keith Red Solo Cup, and the fire’s already blazin’ away in one of those home depot type backyard fire pit things. He’s got it set up right in the middle of the driveway with a half dozen old kitchen chairs around it. Scott says he’d borrowed the pit from Jim next door. And in fact, Jim shows up a little later with his wife Jan to confirm that story. It was pretty much just the five of us sitting around the fire. No one seemed to think the less of me for wanting to drink my Sam Summer out of glass. Scott and Jeff lit up a couple of stogies the size of cucumbers, but they were considerate enough to sit downwind of me, so I didn’t mind. Cigars and whiskey are two things that seem like real guy things. But I never got around to developing a taste for either of them and I figure I’m too old and already have enough bad habits, so why bother. Anyway, we sat around for an hour or so and talked about this and that and the other thing. I didn’t want to stay too long; partly because it was a Sunday night and I didn’t want to start the work week the worse for wear, and partly because it was pretty cold out, fire or no fire. It had been light when I got there, but it was dark and the stars were out when I headed up the driveway hill to walk home. I turned down the offer of a road beer, explaining that I had got to the point in life where I liked to do my drinking sitting down and relaxing, whether it was beer or coffee, or something in between. The walk was a short one since I only lived four houses away. It had been nice to get out, and even nicer not to have to drive home. I don’t get out much. Not sure why.

So that’s all I’ve got for now; a fire truck mailbox, and a little neighborhood fire pit, Sam Summer, cold spring evening get-together story. No opinions to speak of. No treatise. Not sure if it gives you any insights (remind me to tell you a story about the word ‘insight’) or not. Not even sure if it was interesting. It’s all I could come up with but, hey, come to think of it, I guess it sort of goes along with Get out da hous a little bit, doesn’t it? Well how about that?