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 “Boys,
I gotta tell you,” said our old pal Windy Wilson, “This cold
transmits me reversely to the winter of ’47. Cold? It thicklicated
your blood so much you could hardly walk. You remember it, Doc? Ol’
Miller at the dairy had to ignitiolize a fire under the milk
separator to liquinate it. Why, even the dickie birds got
refrigelated up and crashed!
“You boys know about them engine heatilations, right? Well, it was
so cold we were obligatored to pre-heat the blamed firewood before
we could burn it. Diesel trucks were immobilating up at sixty miles
an hour and it still took them a mile and a half to stop.
“Some of the women were knitling up sweaters that would fit two
people, just to take advantage of the body heat. Dang near caused
epilemic divorce, ‘cause the husband wanted to go one way and the
wife another. I tell you, it was parsimonium! It was blame near four
days and nights erstwhile an ol’ he-coon down ‘long Lewis Creek
recomnized he’d been treed by the hounds, ‘cuz the dogs’ bawling
frosticated up concretely afore he could hear it.”
[to top of second
column] |
Windy paused for a sip or two.
No one wanted to interrupt.
“Some winters,” Windy said, “just take the former limitarions to
obliqueness!”
Yeah. We’d always figured it that way, too.
[Text from file received from
Slim Randles]
Brought to you by
“Dogsled, A True Tale of the North,” by Slim Randles. Find it at
Amazon.com.
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