Motorhead

Auto Man has returned from The Sunshine State. I saw him this morning.
Every year he and his wife head south for the winter and return when the leaves are back on the trees. He fixes cars in the garage behind his house, just down the street from Fuddsy.

After he repairs them, he parks the autos on his front lawn with For Sale signs in their windows.
He's a nice guy, skinny as a rock star and always glad to see me.
I saw him this morning tooling down the street in his hot rod, a hoodless black Ford pickup with a tiny cargo bay and a chrome engine and exhaust pipes that hang over the fenders
I waved as he passed by. He waved back, but he didn't sound his "aoogah" horn.

Mother's Day

The family unit took a trip over the river and through the hood to have breakfast at the railside diner. It's an Edward Hooper-esque eatery with big plate glass windows behind the hanger factory on the other side of the tracks. The diner has a counter with chrome and Naugahyde stools that separates clusters of low-backed booths and has a devoted clientele.
The smokers congregate on one side, the non-smokers on other. Smoking is no longer allowed, but the groups still maintain their distance.

An elderly woman in a walker shuffled slowly into the smoker's side, while her husband straggled in with her portable oxygen tank. A neatly dressed couple said prayers over their French toast while a biker dude in a sweaty T-shirt and a blue do-rag snorted at a joke.
Number One Son had the usual: a chocolate chip pancake. Mom was in a festive mood. She had the Monte Christo. I had the American Classic:a cheese omlette with hot dog slices. It was the name that got to me. I couldn't resist. But I wouldn't recommend it.

A train lumbered by dragging hoppers of coal north to the power plant.