My dad's father grew up in western Pennsylvania (he and my Nana were married in Punxsutawney, home of the famous groundhog.) Back then, and probably still now as well, a lot of the roads in that area were two-lane and winding and full of no-passing zones. This was well before the era of the interstate highway. Grandpa was a big raw-boned Irishman and a fun-loving and easygoing kind of guy, but getting caught behind a slow-moving big truck on one of those winding roads where he couldn't pass (which happened often) frustrated the ever-loving dickens out of him. His epithet of choice for the trucks was "Bastards!"
Yesterday, after we got all the kids off to school and ran a couple of errands, Mom and I had a few free minutes before we had to start cleaning and cooking for the aunts' arrival. We decided to celebrate the start of the school year with pedicures. The salon is only about five miles from my house, but it is five miles of winding and narrow two lane roads, much like the ones that tormented my grandfather. We were stuck behind a car with out-of-state plates that was doing 30 in a 45 zone for almost the entire way home.
My go-to vocabulary is different from Grandpa's, but the thought that I was channeling him at that moment made me smile.
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