Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Do Not Follow.

[Dear Reader: As I noted on Sunday, all of my entries on the old blog have now gone down the digital hole along with the provider, except for some I backed up. Therefore I present today one of what I euphemistically call a Fred Classic, or rather, to use that very low bar, "The Best of Fred."]
"Construction Vehicle / Do Not Follow"
Why not follow, I say?

Are they shy? We all know that people like to watch construction. But do the construction guys not like to be watched? "Don't follow me! I don't want you to hang around watching us all day! We're awfully shy!"

When I've seen construction crews, shy is not the word that springs to mind.

Maybe they're secretive. Like, they're hiding their trade secrets. Or maybe they're hiding construction magic! We know that little boys love trucks---maybe they sense the secret truck magic. They say kids are intuitive about these things.

Puts me in mind of Tennyson:

Not of the sunlight,
   Not of the moonlight,
   Not of the starlight!
   O young Mariner,
   Down to the haven,
   Call your companions,
   Launch your vessel,
   And crowd your canvas,
   And, ere it vanishes
   Over the margin,
   After it, follow it,
   Follow The Truck.

Or something like that.

Maybe the Who:

Every day I get in the car (Too much, the Magic Truck)
To follow the truck that takes me too far (Too much, the Magic Truck)
I'm so nervous, I just sit and smile (Too much, the Magic Truck)
The site is only another mile (Too much, the Magic Truck)

But I think I can write my own Chaucer-like ode to the Truck That Cannot Be Followed:

O mitey trucke that schleppes alonge
The secret paths I don't belonge;
Belching diesell all the dayes,
Thou goeth mystick fairey wayes,
Doun hidden traille and secret roade
Thou growleth neath thy hevy loade.
Construction trucke, were I to followe,
Perhaps you'd lede me to Apolloe,
In harde hatt, with his lyre swete!
I'd laye the bryck and pour concrete
I'd bilde a golden rebar gate
With Teemsters (locall 308).
Alas, I cannot bilde, O Trucke!
My bilding prowes sure doth sucke;
With trowel and rivett I am but dumbe;
I hammer on my precious thumbe.
Fare well, O Trucke; I am not fitte
With you to worke and scratche and spitte.
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