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1 The number of women I have been married to. I intend to keep this one forever. Among other things, I’m too old to start breaking in another one. Number One tells me I’m so set in my ways that another one would not want me anyway.
2 The times my son Dan out-shot me at a sanctioned handgun silhouette match. The first time it happened I told him to walk home. In thirty seconds he had five offers of a ride home that included stopping for ice cream on the way.
Pop cans have changed over the years, particularly the method to open either pop cans or those containing “barley pop.” Those very much younger than yours truly think a “church key” is the key that unlocks the door of a house of worship.
Leo was also a gardener. His garden was like mine, a miracle garden. With the travel schedule of a hay hauler, it was a miracle if the garden survived.
I love to eat turkey. I know that the logic of the thought is faulty, but it seems to me the more turkey I eat, the fewer turkeys there are in the world.
It was 1968. I was freshly married and in college. The employment I found to go with the college and the new family left me working Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays and attending college Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. My employer had a fair amount of farm land as well as a small feedlot and too many turkeys.
Overheard from a fellow who was married to a beautician, “It’s like being married to a chameleon, I never know what I’m going to come home to.” He went on to talk about asking questions only his wife would know the answer to before patting on the fanny the redhead who had been a blonde ten hours earlier.
I always thought that the Ford Mustang automobile was the neatest thing since sliced bread. I even stopped by the Burke Huddleson Ford dealership in Nampa, Idaho, and looked one over closely.
Years back, Leo and I would occasionally hear the drone of what we assumed to be someone flying the night mail. I suggested to Leo, one time, that as discouraging as things were at the moment, it might be in order to sell the hay trucks, buy a twin Beach airplane and fly the night mail. Leo pondered it for some time, and then replied that in all the years he’d been involved in things powered by motors, he had yet to find one that would not eventually need to have a mechanic called to it.
Dan Mori was one of those fellows who was doing something all the time. He got a few more years of good use from a K-model International Harvester pick-up truck by transplanting the engine and transmission from a Ford Thunderbird into the old truck.