My friend Mike is on a holiday. I am not
sure where he went, and since I am writing this now (not now, like at the
present time, now like weeks ago, probably) I am not even sure when he went.
Still, Mike is my friend, we have been blogging friends for quite a while.
Which makes me wonder why he didn’t tell me
where he was going, was he worried I would show up at his hotel. “Hey, Mike,
here I am with my family, and the people I work with. And the guy who runs the
donut shop where I get my “coffee.* We just stopped by to see what you were
doing.” Would that be so bad?
Of course he didn’t even tell me when he
was leaving. Perhaps he thinks I will go to his house and drink all his beers,
and tea, and eat all the pastries and cakes. Which might not be a bad idea
considering how little Mike thinks of our “friendship.” If it weren’t for all
the flying over all the ocean (two of my least favorite things) to get there.
Still, good friends are hard to find,
particularly when they live in the UK and don’t want to be found. Then it
approaches impossible. And Mike is one of my oldest blogging friends.
Mike, we are going to go to the Smoky
Mountains in a southern state in the fall. Beautiful country, moonshine liquor,
boiled peanuts,** a peaceful cabin nestled deep in the forest, Friendship Falls
and their version of Loaded Fries, and the comfort of an evening rain shower
every time we light the barbecue grill. It is almost heaven. Why don’t you stop
by. It is just location redacted.
Your “friend”
Tim
*Secret wife fooling code for “Donuts”
**Whatever you do don’t eat the boiled peanuts, I am convinced it is a joke, and they just laugh at the Yankees as they take our money.
Note from Mike: For the record, I have little idea where we're going on holiday, it involves me driving and my wife giving directions.
