The Sad Bear

June 17, 2009

Tragicomedy

The Comedy of the Cliff

Perhaps deceiving, this image shows the crashwagon in peril, perched at the edge of a ditch better described as a cliff.

It was 9 a.m. when I arrived at a train bridge to photograph volunteers repainting a mural. With the 55 mph highway in mind, I strayed far onto the shoulder before parking. Forty minutes later, my rear-wheel drive was coaxing the back of my wagon over the edge of a 15-foot embankment full of vegetation and trees. I paused, reoriented my wheels and made one more effort. I envisioned a barrel roll into the bush: a foolhardy destruction. And I called it quits and called a tow truck.

Meanwhile ...

The Comedy of Lynchburg
Katie's new N-V position (which comes with an office) is not without its share of new never-seen co-workers at the printing press some 60 miles away. But before today -- a day featuring the Comedy of the Cliff and chicken burned by crock pot -- she had never made clear how awesome the faceless pressman might be.

Known only by voice, they are: H.T. Bear, Allen, Larry, and Larry (who goes by Allen).

Labels: close call, Crashwagon, driving, randomness