by Slim Randles
“Boys, I gotta tell you,” said our old pal Windy Wilson, “This cold transmits me reversely to the winter of ’47. Cold? It thicklicated your blood so much you could hardly walk. You remember it, Doc? Ol’ Miller at the dairy had to ignitiolize a fire under the milk separator to liquinate it. Why, even the dickie birds got refrigelated up and crashed!
“You boys know about them engine heatilations, right? Well, it was so cold we were obligatored to pre-heat the blamed firewood before we could burn it. Diesel trucks were immobilating up at sixty miles an hour and it still took them a mile and a half to stop.
“Some of the women were knitling up sweaters that would fit two people, just to take advantage of the body heat. Dang near caused epilemic divorce, ‘cause the husband wanted to go one way and the wife another. I tell you, it was parsimonium! It was blame near four days and nights erstwhile an ol’ he-coon down ‘long Lewis Creek recomnized he’d been treed by the hounds, ‘cuz the dogs’ bawling frosticated up concretely afore he could hear it.”
Windy paused for a sip or two. No one wanted to interrupt.
“Some winters,” Windy said, “just take the former limitarions to obliqueness!”
Yeah. We’d always figured it that way, too.
– – – –
Brought to you by “Dogsled, A True Tale of the North,” by Slim Randles. Find it at Amazon.com.
