Streaking, But Not What You Think...

Had a doctor's appointment first thing Thursday morning, well, only if you consider 0830, "first thing." Early enough to not miss much time at work and early enough to get in to see the doc before the mob shows up. Not early, just first thing, as in "first thing I'm doing today."

'Twas a lovely day, sunny, temperature was around 48° when I launched from the deck of Chez Sarge. That temperature, incidentally, is a full 30 degrees warmer than Tuesday morning at 0600. Quite a change from the past few weeks.

Anyhoo, as I was marveling at the blue skies and the fact that I didn't really need my gloves (don't get me started there), I noticed that the bane of all northern drivers was upon the road.

Spray, thrown up from the vehicles to my front. A mixture of melting snow and the salt applied to the road surfaces during the meteorological event a week ago which brought a metric crap-ton of the white stuff (snow) to our region. Streaking and dirtying my windshield.

Now this spray, in my vehicle at any rate, requires short bursts of windshield wiper fluid to keep visibility up to my standards. I'm here to tell you, I cannot stand a streaked and semi-opaque windshield while driving down the highways and byways of this great land of ours. (Cue America the Beautiful.)

Now there was one vehicle that I had the misfortune to take up position behind whilst on the way to the doc's. This vehicle seemed to think there were enemy submarines in the area as they were constantly making little zigs and zags. Not always "coloring between the lines" dontcha know?

When the road widened into four lanes (two each way), I kicked Big Girl into burner and blasted past the offending vehicle. All the windows, save a three square foot patch of windshield were liberally coated in road salt, no little amount of dirt, perhaps even a partridge in a pear tree.

As I passed, I noticed that the elderly female operator of the vehicle had a death grip (both hands at the top) on the steering wheel. Her vision was focused intently to her front. I daresay the windows on that car hadn't been cleaned in months.

Felt a bit sorry for her I did. Had a touch of guilt at the verbal abuse I had conjured up towards this wee lady in my brain pan while traveling in her wake I did. Probably someone's dear old grannie, I felt the complete cad. Which reminded me of a story.

Once upon a time, on the road, the female progeny (I think The Missus Herself was present as well) witnessed me berating an older person behind the wheel of another vehicle. Not quite sotto voce, I think I might have been in full enragement. Said older person was making a complete dog's breakfast out of the simple task of staying in their lane and was traveling at a speed well below the posted limit. Offended I was, irked I was. Here was this fellow grandpa, "letting down the side," as it were. Making all of us geezers look bad.

Now let me pause here for a moment, lest you think that I am too hard on the elderly. No, no. I berate all drivers. I am an equal opportunity berater. I don't care what gender you are (or think you are), your color, your religious beliefs, your national origin, your favorite color, or your age. If you are an obvious incompetent operating a motor vehicle, I will bitch about it. Vociferously. I have witnesses who can vouch for that.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, the berating of a person of vast age behind the wheel of a mechanized death machine, er, car. At any rate, whilst in mid-harangue, one of the female members of the tribe said, and this is as near a quote as I can recall -

"You know Dad, someday you're going to be that old. Heck, you're nearly there! You're going to drive the exact same way."

Gobsmacked I was, flabbergasted, and taken all aback was I at this suggestion from one of my beloved daughters. (I'm betting it was The WSO, though it could have been The Nuke as well.)

"If I ever drive like that, I hope you kids will take my keys away and prevent me from ever getting behind the wheel again! Ever!" I indignantly proclaimed.

When we arrived at our destination, I cut the corner a wee bit fine and ran one of the back tires up and over the curb. As I parked the car, the love of my life, the lady to whom I have been married forty years this very day, turned to me and said -

"Better give me those keys honey, I think you're done."

Chagrined and humiliated by the laughter of my wife and children. I mumbled something about fudge, I'm sure that's what it was, and went into the store.

Blushing a rather delightful shade of red.

Hoisted I was. On my own petard.




The opening photo was taken on the way home from work Thursday eve. I stopped the windshield wipers momentarily so that you could all see the streaking and glare that one gets without an every now and then squirt of wiper fluid and a near constant use of the wipers. It can get ugly fast!