Here’s mile Marker 200—Stay Tuned!
We are planning a special surprise to celebrate sludgo’s 200th installment of Mile Markers. Because of this, publication is delayed by one week—you’ll see #200 next Friday, August 29. Stay tuned!
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sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 219 — Explained
I hate flying. Hate it. Such a hassle. Fighting traffic to the airport and finding parking. Then waiting in line to check in. Then waiting in another line where they make you empty your pockets and take off your jacket and shoes and belt and put everything into a tub for screening before you’re pointed into the Whizbang 9000 Deluxe Hijacker Detector to dutifully assume the position. Then there’s that one last line to wait in along with the rest of the herd when you finally board the plane. Moo. I’d probably enjoy the experience more if I flew first class but the cheapskate in me chokes at the expense, remembering the Oldsmobile Man’s observation that the nose of the plane gets wherever you’re going just as fast as the tail does so the ‘complimentary’ cocktails and snacks and marginally wider and deeper seats really weren’t worth the extra scratch. But exactly two weeks ago, as I inched through the expansive first class section of my plane then wedged my behind into my more-than-snug aisle seat back in coach I began questioning Pop’s sage advice. I shook off the thought, though. Didn’t matter. My ticket was bought and paid for and I already had enough on my mind as I buckled in and switched my phone to Airplane Mode. I was heading to Arizona again. Down to the house in Sunset Acres one more time. But this time would be different than all the rest. Very different.
sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 209 — Explained
It was just before midnight, New Year’s Eve 1976, and a light snow had begun to fall as me and the rest of the crew walked wearily out of the service bay door of Mark & Randy’s Red Owl. We were beat-down, dead-dog tired but were all in a great mood. The supply semi had pulled in a couple hours ahead of schedule that evening, having left home base in Fargo early because another blizzard was on its way, so we’d gotten a head start on Stock Night, unloading the giant trailer and unpacking all the boxes, then filling the freezers and refreshing the coolers and stacking the dry-goods shelves to their very brim, making sure the product was orderly and neatly placed right-side-up with all labels dutifully facing front. I was anxious to get over to Anne’s and welcome in the New Year with a big wet smooch, but decided to stop for a minute to have a cigarette with the guys. And that’s when it happened. I had a great idea. One of the best I thought I’d ever had. The Red Owl Gran Prix.
A Look at sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 220
This is Part Two of a three-part series. To read Part One, click this link. Part Three is linked at the end of this piece.
My flight to Phoenix got in on time. Wasn’t as bad as most. My seatmate was a chatty blonde eighteen-year-old with big blinky blue eyes who cheerily introduced herself when I first sat down. Saw me glance at her name tag and explained she was on her way to Lubbock, Texas, to attend missionary training school. I asked if she’d ever been to Lubbock before and she shook her head sweetly. I said I had and found it to be a pretty cool town. Told her it was Buddy Holly’s birthplace and she crinkled her nose and said she didn’t know who that was. I laughed then quickly sang a few choruses of his more famous tunes—“Peggy Sue,” “That’ll Be the Day,” “Oh Boy”—but only got a goofy grin out of her. No matter. I spent the next two hours listening to her talk about how wonderful her life had been thus far and how excited she was about all the terrific plans she had for her future. I smiled wistfully all the while, remembering what it was like when I had more days in front of me than behind me, back when I was giddily optimistic and ever-excited for tomorrow, constantly wishing it’d hurry up and get here. Then, just like that, it had.A Look at sludgo’s Mile Markers—Mile 223
This last Saturday evening I met my youngest at the rib place over by the mall. We’ve made it a regular date ever since he moved out of the McBungalow however many years ago. I enjoy seeing him and think he enjoys seeing his dear ol’ dad, but I know full well that in light of his instant-ramen-level cooking skills what he likely enjoys most is having a decent meal once a week, especially if I’m springing for it. No matter. I don’t mind. It’s become a highlight of my week. I always buy a couple of scratch-off tickets for us—the five dollar kind—and we sit in our favorite booth scratching away, hoping to win big bucks as we chat about this and that and nosh on our racks of baby backs and stacks of sweet Vidalia beer-battered onion rings before washing everything down with a Long Island iced tea for me and a Dr. Pepper for the kiddo. It’s a good time. Like I said, a highlight of my week.
sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 202 You Should Know
This is Part Two of a three-part series. Click the link to read Part One.
It had been a glorious NoDak autumn Saturday morning for twelve-year-old me. I’d woken to a gorgeous orange-red sunrise and the cool prairie breeze drifting across my face as it blew through my opened window. All the birds outside were merrily greeting the day in song, all the robins and wrens and sparrows and meadowlarks and mourning doves, even the peacocks and ducks and geese and swans calling out from over at the Deaf School pond. I’d jumped out of bed and into my routine early, stripping off my pajamas and putting on my weekend duds before pouring myself a heaping bowlful of Lucky Charms then parking out on the living room couch to watch cartoons on our big thirty-six inch color console RCA. Four hours later—after Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner and the Jetsons and Scooby-Doo and Josie and the Pussycats and Archie and then Fat Albert—it was noontime and the Lucky Charms were long gone and I was hungry again so I’d decided to hop on my StingRay and ride across town to Grandma Lettie’s to see if she’d make me one of her world-famous fried bologna and Miracle-Whip sandwiches but when I got there she wasn’t home. Figured I’d wait for her a bit and headed out to her backyard to climb Big Olie, the giant oak she’d planted as a sapling fifty years ago when she first bought the house, but as I walked up to Olie’s trunk, I glanced across the way at Old Man Granger’s place and noticed something interesting—the walk-in door to his garage was ever-so-slightly ajar. Hm.sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 208 You Should Know
I inched the TT up to the starting line, stopping when the steward waved his hand. I squinted through the windshield at the course laid out in front of me—hundreds of orange traffic cones dutifully showing the way I should go and the way I shouldn’t. The goal was to complete all the twists and turns and short straights as fast as I could without hitting any of the cones or spinning out or worse. It would be a race against the clock, the most ruthless opponent of any racer, and my heart was pounding. I shook my head clear, reminding myself it was my first autocross ever and that I had to lowball my expectations. Temper my approach. Drive within my limits. Not be too eager or aggressive. Rely on my half-century of driving fast in all sorts of cars and conditions and let the seat of my pants be my guide. Easy peasy, right? Right. So I looked over at the steward. Gave him a thumbs-up and he gave me a nod back then signaled the starter to switch on the Christmas tree. Gulp.
