The Yellow Jackets

When our family vacationed together in Montana, my granddaughters, Sarah and Genevieve who have never met a bug they wouldn't pick up, decided to rescue hundreds of dumb yellow jackets that were drowning in the wading pool. They picked up the near-dead wasps, carried them to dry land, and observed them--as they dried off and flew away. Some yellow jackets were not grateful and both cousins received a couple of stings. Unnerved and wiser, they changed their tactics and handled the bugs with vigilance and special tools. Many yellow jacket lives were saved--so they could pester us later in the evening around the campfire.

Road Rage

Lois pulled into the left turn lane under the freeway as the turn arrow changed to red. From our right, traffic started to move past us on the one way frontage road—except for one car with dark tinted windows that appeared stalled at the light. A woman in the car behind beeped her horn—perhaps for a second too long—because the stalled car door sprang open ejecting a muscular young guy who gesticulated and yelled profanities as he ran back to the horn blower's car. She backed up with a start, maneuvered around his car and sped away.

Now there were only two vehicles left for a quarter mile: ours with two seniors on board; and his with still opened door--while he was angrily kicking the side of his car. When he saw us watching his antics, he ran over to my window cursing with pumping fists, screaming that we were just sitting there and watching him—why weren't we helping him? [I have helped many stalled motorists in my life—but never under duress.] I shouted to Lois to get out of there. She did—legally so—properly waiting for the left turn arrow to turn green.

The Well Dressed Woman

Early this morning at Panera's I sat alone in "my" room in the over-stuffed chair by the fireplace, listening to classical background music, drinking coffee and reading the paper, when a well-dressed woman in her fifties sat down in the booth nearby, taking items out of her book bag to set up her space: three books stacked to her right, a computer tablet at the back, an old leather bound book to her left and an open journal and pen in front. When everything was in its proper place, she began gazing into the distance, stopping occasionally to jot down her thoughts in her journal.

After a while she left the room to return with a breakfast sandwich and a tall coffee.

I went back to reading the paper, when out of the silence came an ineloquent, "SHIT!" Her tall coffee cup was turned on its side. She didn't need my offer of help and cleaned up the mess, as I returned to my world.

Butte Beer's Unique Taste--revised

When I had a summer job with Reardon's plumbing shop, I took a plumber up to Butte Brewing to change a two inch gate valve that was leaking on the bottom of a thousand gallon holding tank of beer. We couldn't just drain the tank; this had to be a live operation. The plumber had to unscrew the valve--losing gallons of beer in the process--and replace it with a new valve. It was a surprise to see a mouse with extreme alcohol poisoning flow out with the beer. We had discovered the secret to Butte Beer's unique flavor.

Debt Collectors

As I stood in line to order coffee I overheard two guys behind me with English accents. They looked somewhat like Manchester soccer hooligans--dressed in rugby jerseys with watch caps pulled down over their ears. Lanyards held their company ID cards.

Smiling and looking at their IDs, I asked, "So, what do you guys do?"

"We are collectors for Bank o' America."
...
"So, you might come to my door to collect money?"

"Whatever."

Impatient

On the way to Costco I listened to a funny sketch by the overly heavy-weight comedian John Pinette (whose ongoing theme is always about food) talk about his unbearable waits in fast food lines--like standing behind the first in line who slowly vacillates about what to order or another who after ordering searches for their checkbook (and then for a pen that works).

After shopping at Costco, I decided to order something for lunch and queued up behind two other people. As we waited the guy in front of me freaked out as the much-over-dressed-for-Costco woman, who was in the middle of ordering, searched her purse for a ringing cell phone.

"I hate it when this happens!" he impatiently shouted. As soon as the woman had paid, he ran up next to her and handed the clerk the receipt that he had pre-paid at the checkout stand--which was quickly exchanged for a hot dog--and then he was gone. Meanwhile the woman was still standing next to the counter and talking on her phone--unaware of his angst--or anyone else.

Memories

These days the only way to recall a thought is to write it on a list; unless I forget that I have a list.