Some have asked me to print a story that Brent Daley, one of my buddies at our drop in, has written. Here it is, with only moderate editing. Anybody need a ghost writer?
It was the spring of 1995 when I moved back home from Calgary. I was tired after spending 15 years as a mechanical engineering technologist at the University of Calgary, but if the truth be known I was burned out.
The normal three day drive would double because of the shape I was (wasn’t) in both physically and mentally. My aging Honda Civic was packed full and the utility trailer I was hauling had more than double it’s capacity. I had everything I owned with me.
An early May morning on the north shore of Lake Superior showed God’s handiwork: deep blue sky, blue lake, paper white beaches, trees in bloom – it was a picture postcard. Highway good, no traffic, my gas tank was ¾ full with 30 miles from the last town and 20 to the next. That is when the trouble began.
My body tensed when I heard the loud crunch and grind behind