Huh. Interesting. An ISP from Nebraska in my stats.

What a surprise.

After yesterday's long day and the rain, hail and sleet, I had already decided to sleep in today. A decision fully welcomed by the heelers. And the wife reporting a new covering of snow on the landscape made skipping lek surveys all the more justifiable.

But shortly after nine, I was headed into town for a greatly overdue servicing of the outfit's truck. And a check of the horrible shimmy it has picked up around 35-40 mph, and 70-75 mph. As the mechanic started work on it, I hiked the four blocks to McD's for coffee and paperwork.

Didn't happen.

Got the coffee, alright, but never really did much paperwork. You see, in the booth next door was a long-time friend. Naturally, I had to ask about his son.

Still in Fallujah. Okay so far. You could tell he didn't really want to talk about it.

What he did want to talk about is trucks.

Old trucks.

He has a new project to fill his spare time. Another antique truck, which is really just a shell. Needing an engine, transmission, extensive body work and, oh yeah, the entire interior has been gutted.

He and his friends are figuring on this vehicle occupying their days off for up to a decade. Although he says they'll have it running by the Fourth.

Of July, he means.

This is in addition to the '35 truck that one of the crew is working on, which means they are all working on it, too.

And then there's his son's '53 Chevy pickup that still needs a few extras added on. He just recently got the final parts. But putting them on will have to wait. Until his son is back from Iraq, out of the Marine Corps, and able to spend days and days with his Dad fixing it all up.

When your son is at war, you don't talk about your fears.

You talk about your futures.

You have to.