Sunshine, Lollipops

When I was little my mom would pack up the Hockey family a big picnic, chicken, homemade buttered bread, coleslaw and cookies, even on winter days like today, and off we would go in the family asphalt yacht. What with the four of us testing each other's rib cage strength it was not long before dad was working on his thermos of rum and coffee as he tested the limits of the sedan's big engine and mom was sneaking wine as we tested the limits of her sanity.

Sometimes we had a destination and sometimes we did not. In the winter months, more often than not, we did not have any particular place to go. I liked that best.

If we headed into the forbidden hillbilly country on the north side of the river we usually came home on a ferry service meant to keep the stump farmers from that neck of the woods from endangering the more urbane drivers of Dope City who tangled horns on one of the overcrowded bridges to the west.

Even in those days the line-ups for the ferry could be long - so long we sometimes got to eat cardboard containers full of chips greasier than a slug with motor oil on its back as we waited to board. Once the fries were gone we entertained one another with the loudness, length, pitch and smelliness of our farts. Us Hockeys could out-fart a good sized company picnic fed undercooked, rancid hamburgers and Labatt's Blue.

Today it was just me and the Hammer farting our guts out in the line-up for the ferry as the sun made its way through the ice-fog. The Hammer won in all categories except loudness.