Terribly Tired No More

Mike got his bike back together, so now it was my turn. Deborah had to go pick up May from work, so I borrowed the kids' wagon and trundled off noisily to Mike's basement.


Michael Brown and the flying tire irons of doom!

It wasn't a moment too soon that we got that new tire on. I was shocked to discover how little was left in the center---about an eighth of an inch of rubber and steel between me and some horrible accident. I must have one very dizzy guardian angel.

One of the fun things abut working with Michael is to listen to his accent wander. He's spent significant parts of his life in Kentucky, Maine, and France, so you pick up little bits like tar arns (tire irons) or ovah theyah (over there) or raclette (really strong cheese melted and scraped onto food), but only happens for a split second, before he goes back to using the local accent. His editorial bent prevents him from using the local grammar, of course.