Follow the white rabbit

So, I was riding around downtown Lewiston the other day — Pierce Street, I think it was — when I was astounded to see a plump rabbit bounding across the street ahead of me. As I circled the block, I found myself waxing poetic. Even here, in the midst of all this chaos and disorder, nature finds a way. Behold this defenseless rabbit, a symbol of our innocence, surviving where others have perished! Here, then, is a sign of hope for those who believe they cannot prevail! I returned to the scene and there the bunny was again, crossing the street in the opposite direction. Only, as I moved closer, I discovered that what I had seen wasn’t a rabbit at all. It was some kid’s grubby soccer ball being kicked back and forth across the street. In my defense, my riding goggles were pretty grubby that day.

Incoming choppers

The very same day, I spotted a short guy carrying a bugle up Chestnut Street and for a glorious moment I was convinced I was looking at the one and only Gary Burghoff of “M*A*S*H” fame. Got a little closer and, no. No, it wasn’t Radar O’Reilly preparing to blow Reveille in Kennedy Park, it was just some little dude hauling around what proved to be an oil funnel. I really need to get my goggles cleaned and perhaps have my medications adjusted.

Swollen bladderwort

I finally got around to reading Joe Charpentier’s story on swollen bladderwort, and while the whole concept is distressing for area lakes and streams, the term itself is just delightful. “Swollen bladderwort” sounds like some kind of semi-obscene insult you might have heard tossed around in the Elizabethan age. “Unhand me, you swollen bladderwort, or I shall swear a pox upon thy innards!” Needs a little work, but you get the gist. Try it on your boss today!

Have you had your lobster yet?

Now, this is a weird one to me. I find that people tend to ask this question in summertime the same way they ask “get your deer yet?” in the fall. I wish people would stop asking me about this since I had a very loud and public falling out with lobster eight years ago when I discovered that I didn’t like the things enough to justify spending the rest of the day with my face stinking of crustacean. Admit that in the wrong circles, I’ve found, and you risk getting exiled from Maine.

Make it right

Boy, I really appreciate one J. Craig Anderson for writing about those drivers who camp out in the passing lane on the turnpike. Those people are dangerous, I say, because they reduce the flexibility other drivers have for steering away from merging traffic or other perils on the highway. Passing lane campers are a bunch of swollen bladderworts if you asked me.