The Persian

The sky was white this morning.  Vast and empty of color like an incandescent light bulb.  The ground was dry, the air crisp and cold.  There was a considerable bustle around town, the combination of clear weather and the loom Christmas made it ideal for activity. As I sat in my truck waiting for a red light to turn, I noticed a man.  His hair was pulled though the back of his red ball cap, his blond curls bounced as he walked.  He was wearing brown flannel under his black down vest and an old pair of jeans that were nearly colored white from the amount of washes.  In his hand he held a leash.  At the end of the leash- a white Persian cat.

At first, I thought it to be a novel idea. But as I continued to watch the man with his cat, I determined that there is a reason why cat leashes are hardly marketable.

This is why:

 I watched the man walk forward about four steps and his fluff of a cat stopped and sat down on the sidewalk.  He yanked on the leash. The cat walked another step or so and plopped.  He yanked on the leash again. This time the cat didn’t walk. Yank. Nothing. Then he pulled. The cat slid across the pavement. Yank. Nothing. The man’s frustration was written all over his face.  He took a few steps backward and kicked the cat forward.  So, the cat reluctantly took a few steps, then another plop. Yank. Nothing. Slide. Nothing. Kick. Nothing. Double kick. Nothing.

The man bent down to pick up the cat, rested it on his shoulder, and then resumed his morning walk. After this little exchange, my light switched to green.  As I proceeded though the intersection, I glanced back once more to the odd pair and saw the Persian’s tail swinging in sweet victory.  This is when I determined the lack of value in a cat leash.  If you insist on taking your cat for a walk, they will make you carry them eventually.  Might as well forget the leash and leave your house with your cat in your arms.  It will save you both time and money.

Orange

It was a clear morning in the middle of September. A volunteer work crew lined the streets of Woodburn leaving trails of half full yellow trash bags behind them. All the volunteers were draped with generic reflective vests over thick sweatshirts and coats, no doubt to prevent any untimely deaths from the speeding cars that surrounded them.

However, one woman stood out from the rest.  Her shoes were yellow, bright enough to glow.  She wore a pair of freshly washed orange construction pants and a matching orange sweatshirt.  Over the sweatshirt was the orange and yellow reflective vest that was a sliver too large, so it hung down loosely past her waist.  Her hair was cut short, covered almost fully by a red trucker hat.  And if she was not visible enough already in her florescent color display, attached to her hat was an orange lawn marker flag that wiggled in the wind a foot above her head.

Yes, orange woman, everyone saw you.  Although, I am almost certain that no one would have seen you without the flag.  It’s a good thing you decided to add that extra touch.  Mission “Visibility” accomplished.

Fist Pump

Traffic was slow on my way home. There was someone in the bike lane. On a bike? No. Power wheelchair? Yes. 

His chair was medium sized and scarlet colored, dwarfed slightly under the weight of his large belly. A little feather attached to his brown fedora wiggled in the wind as he pushed the chair’s engine to its max- roughly 2.4 mph.  His cane balanced between his legs.  His front basket overflowed with plastic bags of groceries.  His sport jacket was worn and frayed at the cuffs.  As I swung wide to give this man a wide berth, he lifted his left fist in the air. I began to question my actions. Was my berth not wide enough? Was I proceeding forward too quickly? Was his heart exploding in a massive coronary revolt against his large midsection? As my mind raced with possible explanations for the very precarious fist pump, he made a slow right hand turn.

Glad to know you still obey the signals of the road buddy-- even if your vehicle does not meet the required specifications.

Old Timer

Maroon Ford Taurus. “Student Driver” magnet decal on the door.  Slowly and cautiously turning through the intersection.  I watched the timid car make its way past my truck and rudely stared at the driver.  It wasn’t a student at all.  Rather, it was an 80 year old man slightly hunched over the steering wheel, firmly gripping it with fingerless leather gloves.  Driver Instructor in the front seat, an actual student in the back. I guess this man always wanted to experience Driver’s Ed. Check that one off the Bucket List.