Welcome to Joiner's Corner

It was probably a year or so back when my mother suggested consequences might be an interesting column topic. In July she mentioned it again, soberly adding she’s still bothered by mistakes made in parenting my late brother Jimmy. 

Her point was that present-day regrets are consequences of long-ago actions. I told her what I believe to be true. She did the best she knew how at the time. 

Jimmy was a wonderful son, loving brother, and good friend to many, but he got off to an early start in testing the boundaries of patience. He told one of his grammar-school teachers Mama wouldn’t buy him a notebook. And he preceded Opie Taylor in claiming to have brushed his teeth with a toothbrush that remained miraculously dry.    

Late in life, despite having diabetes, Jimmy would discreetly fill up on sweets then say he didn’t want any supper. At first Mama thought he was trying to lose weight, but milkshake cups left in his truck showed otherwise. It’s hard to fix what you can’t understand, but he wasn’t the first to travel that road. It’s been happening since Bible times.    

There are countless biblical examples of misguided decisions which led to adverse consequences. Samson was a warrior without equal until he got clipped by Delilah. Adam and Eve ate their way out of a perfect home. The people in Noah’s day were flooded with regrets. Moses was denied entrance into the Promised Land for striking a rock. The list is long of cases where poor choices led to painful consequences. And we all have some personal experiences, ranging from insignificant to life altering.  

On a better note, however, there are also consequences of good decisions. It’s not often we think of consequences in a positive sense, but maybe we should. Instead of rehashing troubling matters, perhaps we should focus on beneficial outcomes, including those where other people deserve the credit. 

I’ve enjoyed the consequences of having godly parents, of growing up near both sets of grandparents, of never going to bed hungry or having to sleep in a vehicle instead of a bed. I’ve enjoyed the consequences of having friends who inspire me, of living in a country that despite its problems remains a land of opportunity, of enjoying cherished freedoms because of the sacrifices of others. Those are just thought starters. Feel free to make your own list. 

I’m going to try to be more deliberate in making choices which lead toward favorable consequences, not just for me but for others who are affected. And I’m going to make a better effort of learning from mistakes without dwelling on them too long. 

The most important decision my brother ever made was largely a consequence of good parenting, and it came with eternal rewards. If he could send a message south he’d probably laugh and tell our mother that heaven’s milkshakes remind him of Carver’s Country Store. And with a huge grin he’d likely point his finger at her and use one of his favorite lines. “You need to put a smile on that face!” 

Jimmy would no doubt heartily agree with what I believe to be true. Mama did the best she knew how at the time.

During my teenage years I wrote a few songs. All of the evidence is thankfully gone. They weren’t awful for a kid with a Silvertone guitar ordered from Sears & Roebuck, but too elementary to pass along. 

There’s only one from which I remember any lines. It must have been my favorite. “I got pots and pans and a dog named Fang, trailer and guitar and a woman who swings. They call me the gypsy, and maybe I am. I just keep traveling on, just kind of hanging round, don’t plan to ever settle down.” I don’t know what inspired those whimsical lyrics. Maybe it was the gypsies who used to occasionally come by our farm.

Some folks were hesitant to do business with them, but Daddy knew a few by name and was acquainted with multiple generations in one family. They would drive down from South Carolina and stop by about once a year, offering to paint the rusty tin on our shelter or selling off-brand shop equipment.

Daddy only had the shelter painted once that I recall. They quoted a high price but kept dropping, finally getting down to almost nothing. He didn’t expect the silver coloring to last past a big rain, but figured a temporary shine was worth a few dollars.

We still have a couple of pieces of shop equipment he bought from the gypsies – a hydraulic press and a free-standing drill. He enjoyed trading with them, as had his father before him. Daddy would get updates on some of their family members he’d met through the years, then they’d be gone again.

Or maybe that song evolved from a more personal experience. I’m not sure why a group of us boys went to Cordele, but curiosity led us to a house on US 41 with a sign advertising palm readings. A lovely young lady in the yard made stopping seem like a grand idea, Cupid’s arrow, however, fell flat when she took us to her grandmother. 

Not wanting to be impolite, nor confess my true motivation, I paid the three dollars asked. The rest of the fellows decided one reading by an elderly woman was enough. The knowing lady, however, sensed a hint of interest from my buddy Joe Sanders. And thus began the negotiations. 

They bargained back and forth until settling on a one-dollar fee. Despite the price differential, Joe and I had similar futures foretold. He too would meet someone special and would also experience an impactful yet still-undefined event. I guess it was a lesson in economics, but it’s hard to put a price on a good story. 

It’s possible that song came from watching Sonny and Cher on TV. Cher wasn’t a gypsy but played the role well. Her natural mystique, however, has faded from too many look-young surgeries. I’m not sure how much of the original packaging is left.

I never had a real desire to roam the country. My own bed has always suited me better than a covered wagon. But on many summer nights our front-porch swing cradled the fleeting fantasies of youth. I would strum my guitar and share wistful thoughts with an understanding audience of crickets and fireflies. Sometimes the dog listened too.           

Time has long erased what inspired that gypsy song, for make-believe adventures can only last so long. In my heart I still believe what I’ve always known. Wherever life may take us, there’s no place quite like home.  

In the original “Rambling Thoughts” column I noted that theme might be revisited. Carroll Pitts posted a nice comment suggesting it become a regular series. No one has objected, so I’m considering that a mandate. 

Apparently I’ve misunderstood the term mandate as used in politics for a long time. Thinking it indicated an overwhelming victory, I found it amusing when Presidents of both parties proclaimed mandates even with slim margins. I recently learned it may refer to the authority of a simple majority, so a one-vote mandate led to this second round of rambling thoughts.

Kilts – Ronnie and Sandra Cape went to Scotland in June. He announced in our men’s Sunday School class he bought a kilt for me. Ronnie believes it would help on high attendance Sunday. He may be right. Shannon Akin says I could have done the album cover for “Skinny Legs and All.”

Why a man would willingly don a kilt I do not understand. I saw King Charles on TV wearing one. It was the first time I noticed how much he favors his mother. 

Bagpipe players add a tender note to funerals, but I believe they could come up with a better outfit. A skirt by any other name is still a skirt.

Rumble Strips – They have multiple names, including waker-uppers and drunk bumps, but we’ll go with rumble strips. I appreciate being alerted when a stop sign is near. Those carved in the middle of the road and on the sides, however, seem of questionable value.

I sometimes drive GA 230 from Unadilla to where it dead ends into the Pinehurst-Hawkinsville Highway. The centerline has been scored so heavily the grass needs mowing. And the gouged edges serve little purpose. A few more inches and the shoulder of the road should wake you up.

Online reports are conflicting as to how effective rumble strips are. Some places have paved over them due to noise that wakes sleeping babies or spooks the mules pulling Amish buggies. I’d love to see a comparison of wrecks on GA 230 before and after the notches were made. I’ll wager 1,000 Joiner’s Corner Points there’s no significant difference. If I’m wrong, could we at least not make them so deep?

Art – Dr. Jim Denison offers a daily email in which he gives a Christian perspective on current events. He often covers topics that don’t make headlines. On May 14th he mentioned a painting which sold at a Christies’ auction for $37.8 million dollars. It had a black rectangular bottom half with a similarly-shaped dark-red top.

It looked like a preschooler had not stayed within the lines. The deceased artist was famous so maybe it was an investment, but it reminded me of two art sales that are beyond baffling.

In 2019 a banana, held in place with duct tape, sold for $120,000. That seemed steep until November 2024 when Sotheby’s auctioned a duct-taped banana for $6.2 million. I have two theories. Perhaps it’s a game played by megarich gamblers where the winner loses. Or maybe it’s a way to shift funds to an untaxed affiliate plus get a tax deduction when the banana rots. I know nothing about art, but I know old bananas don’t rise in value. They lose a peel.

That’s enough rambling thoughts for today, but I’ll probably share some more later. I never realized how empowering a mandate can be. I’m just hoping Carroll doesn’t ask for a recount.   

Jane made a trip to her hometown of Thomasville in January. She and her brother went there to spend time with their sister. I was a tad envious when I learned they had a visit with Little Miss Sunbeam.    

In the 1950s I was quite smitten by the gorgeous little blonde featured on Sunbeam Bread wrappers. I wondered if she was real, and would have traded a Superman comic book for a game of Spin the Bottle. 

I only played Spin the Bottle once. We were at an old farmhouse on my Uncle Murray’s property that a group of ladies converted into the Community Clubhouse. They met there for fellowship and educational programs. Mrs. Carolyn Cromer, Dooly County’s Home Demonstration Agent, covered subjects such as sewing and canning. The ladies also shared clandestine tips, like how to add five dollars to the grocery check for a secret stash of cash.    

A kid’s party was held there one night. I don’t remember the occasion, but recall playing a couple of games. We began with Pin the Tail on the Donkey. After that we sat in a circle on the floor and took turns spinning a Coke bottle. When the bottle eventually pointed toward me I bolted toward the door, thrilled at getting to run around the house in the dark with a girl well above my cuteness scale. We were supposed to hold hands but she outran me. I realized too late my shoelace wasn’t really untied.    

Jane, Rick, and Ellen parked in front of their childhood home on Jefferson Street and headed toward the door. The current owners were in the midst of a major renovation of what will be a guest house. It’s a good thing I wasn’t there. My heart may have stopped when greeted by Little Miss Sunbeam. She and her husband gave them a guided tour.

There’s a lot of information about that iconic character. An artist sketch of an unidentified girl playing in a New York park is thought by some to be the origin. There are, however, other theories. One picture I found online shows a Mississippi lass whose family believes she inspired the artwork. There’s a definite resemblance and the timing seems right.  

Another aspect of the story includes Patty Michaels, a notable child model. She was hired by Sunbeam Bakeries in 1955 to bring Little Miss Sunbeam to life. At age five her photo reportedly appeared on breadwrappers in the New York area. Michaels, who went on to have a successful acting and singing career, died in 2010 at age 60. I don’t know the details.

Multiple young girls portrayed Little Miss Sunbeam for various events, some vying for the title in pageants. Countless others no doubt enjoyed playing pretend with friends or wistfully dreaming in front of their mirrors. I’m not sure who inspired that original depiction, but Flowers Baking Company in Thomasville had an official, real-life version. 

Peggy Flowers Rich is who my wife remembers as Little Miss Sunbeam. She was the smiling blonde with curly hair riding the floats in Thomasville’s annual Rose Parade. Based on the hospitality recently extended to Jane and her siblings, I’d say the sweetness she once personified stayed with her after the parades all ended.

Little Miss Sunbeam is all grown up now, and we’re both past the age of playing Spin the Bottle. If, however, that opportunity had come along during childhood, there’s one thing I’m sure of. Before we reached the door, the laces to my shoes would have been tied with double knots.

You know you’re in the country if a road scraper pulls into the bank parking lot. This past November I was at South Georgia Banking Company in Vienna when the big rig’s driver made a quick trip inside. In less than a minute he headed south on U.S. 41, looking again for a dirt road to mend.

I was amused, and delighted to have an original idea for a column. Then I realized it was a variation of Jeff Foxworthy’s comedy routine “You Might Be A Redneck.” With apologies to Mr. Foxworthy, here are some signs of rural living.

You know you’re in the country if tires are used for landscaping. During my childhood a dwindling number of homes had tires lining driveways or as borders for flower beds. The last tirescaping I saw was several decades ago near Mauk, Georgia.

The Pastor Search Committee for our church was traveling through unfamiliar territory. I don’t recall where we were going, but we passed a house with an impressive tire motif. Proper protocol had been observed by burying the bottom halves.  

Super-wide whitewalls made me think those folks must be rich or wanted to be. The extra cost of such tires once indicated status. Some clever folks bought solid black tires for their vehicles but acquired used whitewalls for yard art. They were, as Waylon Jennings sang, “trying too hard to keep up with the Jones.” 

You know you’re in the country when a sign says: “Please Do Not Expectorate (Spit) On Floor.” That hand-written notice was on the wall at our local A.S.C.S. office when I was a kid. It was probably put there before the market for chewing tobacco went up in smoke. The Marlborough Man was so cool people were dying to be cowboys.         

What intrigued me wasn’t the spitting prohibition as much as the word “expectorate.” It was new to me and I’ve never had an occasion to use it in conversation. Maybe someday the time will come.  

You know you’re in the country when many of your neighbors are kin to you. I had a lot of cousins nearby during childhood, which came with special traditions. We prefaced the first names of adult relatives with “Cousin,” as in “Cousin Elizabeth, Cousin Mary Joyce, Cousin Ruby, and Cousin Buddy.” Kinfolks were everywhere – church, school, and Mock Springs.     

Having cousins by the dozens was a blessing I took for granted. I didn’t realize that was becoming a rarity, even for country folks.

You know you’re in the country if people give directions based on landmarks, sometimes those which are long gone. GPS systems have diminished the need for such guidance, but landmarks were once the standard in rural areas, landmarks like a tree.

Lonesome Pine Road intersects with the Pinehurst-Hawkinsville Highway at what was the Spradley Farm for several generations. Long before our county roads were given official names, a solitary pine tree was frequently used as a reference. I’d be lost without GPS, but I miss the nostalgic charm of navigating by landmarks. 

I’m glad that road scraper pulled into the bank parking lot. It warmly reminded me I’m still living in the country. It’s not as easy to tell where the country begins or ends as it once was. The lines are blurring, faster in some places than others. Whatever changes the future may bring, one thing I trust will always remain. If the time ever comes when I’m not living in the country, I hope the country is still living in me. 

 A column from 2023 mentioned my having “A Round Tuit” years ago. I also confessed a present-day need for that long-lost token. Procrastination often sidetracks my good intentions. 

Jim Hamrick, son of the late columnist Harry Hamrick, has encouraged me in my writing many times. After reading that column Jim sent me a round Tuit, plus its lesser-known cousin, the stick Tuit.  

Both novelty items are on my desk to remind me of what needs attention. That doesn’t always translate into action, but at least it prods my awareness. When our family was on a June vacation, the stick Tuit came to mind as I noticed some good examples.

St. George Island is a lovely and uncrowded Florida beach. Dolphins passed by close to shore almost every day. That’s much better than having them do tricks in small pools, but that’s a topic for later, maybe.

What reminded me of the Tuits were the various seabirds. Sandpipers busily trot along the shore, constantly pecking for small crabs and such. Others, like seagulls, are mostly in the air, searching and diving, looking for fish in the shallows. A red-billed tern passed by a few times gliding just above the water, making quick dips and slight gulps while barely slowing its pace. 

We had a special treat on two consecutive days. A bald eagle swooped down and both times retrieved a nice-size fish with its talons. The big bird circled a bit, perhaps tightening his grip or checking his GPS, then flew toward the bay side of the island to its nest.

Pelicans are among the most amazing fishers. From high above the water, often far from shore, they fold their wings and make diving plunges straight down. It’s hard to tell when they succeed, but I’ve read that it’s much of the time. Over and over they flap their wings to rise from the ocean, search for fish, then dive again.       

 On that same stretch of beach I watched an eleven-year-old boy who fished as relentlessly as the seabirds. He was surf fishing in conditions much windier than normal. The weather was challenging and the fish scarce, but the young boy was undeterred. He would wade out chest deep to cast his baits then work three reels in holders he’d driven into the sand.

Each morning the boy pulled his loaded fishing cart to the water’s edge. Through fifty yards of sand he tugged the heavy load. He’d fish most of the day, except for swimming and food breaks, then pack up his gear just before nightfall and pull the cart back to the house.

Two dog sharks, about three feet long, were his most exciting catches. An occasional crab would ride the bait in. He caught a few catfish, along with a flounder, ladyfish, whiting, and American croaker. For a week of fishing it wasn’t much to show, but every day he optimistically followed that routine.

I’m proud of that kid. He never complained or quit trying, not even as his grandfather lazily dozed in a hammock on the porch. Whatever worthwhile he undertakes in life, I trust he’ll keep that same attitude. Someone much wiser than me said, “Cast your bread on the water and it won’t return void.” That’s good advice for a lot of things. 

And if that young fellow ever needs a reminder, he can have the wooden Tuits on his grandfather’s desk. 

A recent lesson in determination caused me to notice some other good examples not far from home. We’ll get to those, but first let’s consider a decades-old memory that continues to inspire me. 

It was probably 40 or more years ago when I was watching a hummingbird in our back yard. I paused to admire it busily feeding on the honeysuckle covering our fence. Admiration turned to alarm when our cat knocked the bird to the ground then engulfed it in its mouth.

Chances of escape were zero, until our cat chose frivolity over food. She’d release the bird then swat it with a paw, playing a cruel game with her minute captive. But the cat and I had underestimated the tiny creature’s determination. As the cat raised her paw again, the hummingbird darted away.  

In the latter part of May, I pulled into my mother’s driveway a little before noon. My phone rang and I talked for a few minutes, unaware Mama was in the yard. I didn’t see her until she ambled past my truck. On top of her walker, she had balanced a long pecan limb and was taking it to the burn pile.

A 98-year-old woman carrying a limb on her walker would have made a great photo, but that thought came too late. Picking up limbs might be a tad risky at this point, but determination is a big part of what has gotten her this far.

The next day, as I drove by a neighbor’s farm, I saw Thomas “Bud” Sangster near the road. Bud, who is well into his senior years, keeps up several acres of yard and pecan trees. He was riding on a small scooter with a cart in tow, picking up limbs with a reacher.

I continued on toward Unadilla and passed by Mrs. Ruth Cross’ house. I won’t speculate on age, but she taught me typing in high school and her daughter Cathy was my classmate. Miss Ruth still works in her yard and maintains a substantial pecan orchard. It’s so neat I think she sometimes catches limbs before they hit the ground. 

A few minutes later I stopped at Mr. Charles Speight’s home. He had just gotten off his John Deere tractor with which he mows a small field. He uses a Husqvarna in his yard. The list of 103 year olds with two mowers will probably fit on a postage stamp.

I’ll close with a mention of my longtime friend John David “Bud” Law. He just turned 92 and would be busy laying bricks if not for a collision with a log truck. His badly broken ankle was repaired first. Hip replacement followed in early June. Whether he’ll return to laying bricks, I don’t know. But if he doesn’t, it won’t be for a lack of effort nor a shortage of prayers.

Factors such as health play a role in how active anyone can be, but there are always opportunities. Making phone calls to check on others, mailing notes to shut-ins, or knitting items to give away are among the many ways to stay engaged. And if such things are not possible, there are plenty of long prayer lists. Sometimes it takes effort to find what works.

I didn’t think that little hummingbird in our back yard had a chance, but while I was looking down the bird was looking up. And looking up, I’ve learned, pairs well with determination. That’s more than just an opinion. A lot of good examples are close to home.        

An earlier column mentioned my growing stack of scribbled notes. The tidbits of information were kept to remind me of topics I might later revisit. Most were added to the pile because I wasn’t sure how to fit them into a column. A few are on hold until the statute of limitations expires. Lately I’ve begun trying to shorten the stack before it topples over.  

First though, I’m not sure if “topples” should be followed by “over.” It seems over would be understood unless needed to clarify direction. Something might topple forward, backward, or sideward I suppose. If you choose to keep reading, be forewarned that useless ponderings of this nature are scattered throughout my scribbled notes. 

The late Harry Hamrick was a master at finding little jewels among everyday events. He wrote a weekly column for decades in The Unadilla Observer and its successor The News Observer. I wish I could stop by Hamrick’s Furniture Store and visit for a spell. He could offer sound advice on how to separate the grain from the chaff. 

Mr. Harry’s long-running feature was called “Whatcha Callit.” I’ve seen other columns and publications with good names for catch-all writing. Bits and Pieces is one that comes to mind. I debated what to call today’s musings, eventually deciding that “Rambling Thoughts” was preferable to acknowledging “A Rambling Mind.” 

“Jabberwocky” might be a more appropriate heading, but it’s a new word for me and probably not familiar to either of my regular readers. Merriam-Webster emails a “Word of the Day” and that one came as I was considering titles. The timing seemed uncanny as I read the definition – “meaningless speech or writing.” Perhaps it was a sign.

I don’t know if “Rambling Thoughts” will be a one-time feature or become an intermittent series. I’m already realizing how easy it is to get sidetracked before ever getting to my stack of notes. The jabberwocky of a rambling mind is unpredictable.

Let’s start with a note I made regarding a TV ad. The clip features David, a Georgia pharmacist and real Prevagen user. His gray hair, warm smile, and friendly demeanor convey a beloved, grandfatherly figure. David is probably a wonderful man and excellent pharmacist, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea for someone who needs Prevagen to be filling prescriptions.     

Another ad, this one from the February 20th edition of our local paper, set off my scam alarms. For legal reasons this is an opinion not an accusation. The small ad featured several items for sale, including  “Limited Collection Trump 1oz Silver Coins – Very Rare, from Trump’s first Presidency – $5000.00 per coin.” I looked online and found what appears to be an identical coin for $50. I’m guessing the Howard Miller Floor Clock offered for $7000 might be a bit overpriced also.

That same ad probably appeared in multiple publications, which would suggest those “very rare” coins may be quite plentiful. If you run enough deceptive ads, a small percentage of trusting people will get scammed in a big way. But that’s just an opinion.

There was something else I planned to mention today, but it slipped my mind. Maybe I need Prevagen. The Joiner’s Corner Research Department says Prevagen is highly recommended by the folks who make it and many of those who sell it.  

That’s enough rambling thoughts for one column. I didn’t make much headway on reducing my stack of scribbled notes, but that’s okay. The stack hasn’t toppled over, and I had an epiphany while writing. Jabberwocky is best dispensed in small doses.

Few things I’ve ever found more pleasing

Than a hammock swayed by ocean breezes

Gently pushed by friendly winds

Cradled rocking without end

Within the porch’s welcome shade

A medley plays of lapping waves

My soul is soothed as slumber calls

Waves arise and softly fall

A seagull circles in the sky

Offers up its plaintive cry

Dreams and prayers on clouds ascend

Cradled rocking without end 

Stan Gambrell, longtime City Manager of Vienna, Georgia, was a creative genius with a keen sense of humor. Although he died in 2010, Stan often comes to mind as I notice various road signs. He inspired me to consider their hidden lessons.  

My good friend had a splendid idea for a country music album to be titled “The Road Signs of Life.” He wrote a song for it that would have played well at the Opry. I’ve forgotten the lyrics except for its humorous hook. “Sharp curves and soft shoulders made a wreck out of me.”

Seeing a SHARP CURVE or SOFT SHOULDER warning still reminds me of Stan’s clever spin on those two cautions. Other signage frequently leads to ponderings.

“SLOW CHURCH ZONE” is a message I frequently drive past. It’s amusing but sobering too. I’m not sure what the situation is at Big Poplar Baptist Church these days, but business is slow for many congregations. Fire sales at July revivals used to help fill pews, but the market for brimstone burned out.  

“CONGESTED AREA” greets me each week on my way to get allergy shots in Cordele. It always brings a smile but sometimes prompts me to consider the hazards of spiritual congestion. Although highly contagious, a sure cure is free for the asking.  

“NARROW BRIDGE” is a warning that’s easily ignored. If you’re meeting a big rig I suggest the brake and pray maneuver. That tactic is useful in many situations. 

“SLIPPERY WHEN WET” is also tempting to disregard. It amazes me that even in a storm, vehicles on I 75 will fly past those of us who embrace sanity. Maybe they are misinterpreting the term “driving rain.”  

“RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMP” can be a welcome sight. Vehicle brakes are better now than when those ramps were first built, but steep slopes can still send you “rolling downhill like a snowball headed for hell.” Merle Haggard said a lot with that song. 

During my childhood Daddy told me a story about a close call he had due to a brake failure. He was driving an old farm truck with tandem rear axles in the 1950s when he pressed the brake pedal and nothing happened. Seems like he was in Fort Valley but I’m not sure. By gearing it down and using the emergency brake, he managed to creep home at a snail’s pace. Daddy recounted that experience multiple times, hoping I was paying attention.

That brings to mind a somewhat related caution, “BE PREPARED TO STOP.” Decades ago I was pulling a wagon load of peanuts to Giles and Hodge Farm Center in Unadilla. I was driving Daddy’s pickup and making better time than I should have been. I knew Mr Frank Giles would have a cold Coca Cola waiting for me.

When I reached the crossroads a mile north of our house, that light-duty truck was no match for several tons of peanuts pushing it forward. I lurched through the crossing without incident, very aware it could have ended much differently. 

“BE PREPARED TO STOP” has life applications also. Practical matters are tempting to put off, thinking we’ll take care of them later. That can be problematic, but what’s far more serious are unattended spiritual matters. Second chances are always subject to expiration dates.    

Pondering signs is a habit of mine, first inspired by a friend’s clever line. It’s easy to picture Stan as he stopped by my office one day. With a wry smile he stood at my desk and softly sang, “Sharp curves and soft shoulders made a wreck out of me.” We shared a good laugh but it turned out to be more than just an amusing moment. The road signs of life are filled with hidden lessons. Trying to find them I consider a blessing.