She’s leading the parade down Sonoma Hwy, a one lane road with no alternatives. We drive at a blazing 30 miles an hour. She’s now blown my schedule, reputation and promises I made to be on site by 11:00. Subsequently I will have to alter my lunch plans since I will be on site for longer than I expected. Her car is a beast of a Lincoln, which begs her to let it drive the way it was intended. The car laments not being picked up by the organized crime family, or at least someone under 75. Its V8 is dying a slow death under the hood of the car for the Grand Marshal of the Geriatric Parade.
One of the sites for the county is on a stretch of one lane hwy that runs by an adult community. They're all contained out there. They have thier own banks, Bacci ball court, and Golf course. They have some of the best resturants in town. They have mini marts, hair salons and gas stations. For some unnkown reason, the road calls to them.
Come out… We need you
“I busy… I’m playing checkers”
There are people out here driving 60MPH!
“Let me get my coat.”
Using your horn is worthless, it’s better to just relax. She can’t hear you, and if she could she wouldn’t care. Foaming at the mouth, banging my head on the head rest, I’ve worn out the horn symbol on my steering wheel by pounding on it.
“Some young hell raiser, behind me, can’t he read the sign….” She squints, “Something about cows…. I think.”
All you can do, is relax, turn up the music and enjoy the Parade. Rain or shine she’s there, the Grand Marshal in the Geriatric Parade.