Yes, I know; everyone who knows me is frowning at the title of this post and scratching their head. Don’t worry; it’ll make sense—maybe.

One day at work, a few of the guys were sitting around discussing their first wives, some favorably, some not so favorably. The stories grew wilder by the minute and, like they were competing in some primal contest, each one tried to top the other.

Not to be outdone, I joined in the conversation. I told them all about my first wife, how pretty she was, how loving, caring, and supportive she was, and intelligent too—after all, she did marry me. (Some would insist this would be more of an argument against her intelligence). I bragged on how well she could cook—as evidenced by my ever-expanding stomach—and how she was a great mother to our children. I kept talking for a good five minutes or better, regaling them with the many wonders of my first wife.

It must have been something in my tone, or my eyes. Or, maybe I didn’t do a very good job of keeping the smirk off my face, but finally, one of the guys said, “How come I get the feeling you’re not really being honest with us?”

I said, “What do you mean? Everything I’ve told you about her is the absolute truth.” And it was.

Another one of them gave me a disbelieving frown. “I didn’t know you’d been married before.”

“I haven’t,” I said. “Didn’t know we were talking about second wives. I’m still married to the first one. After all I’ve told you about her, why would you think I’d want to change?”

They all laughed and shook their heads. And then, they changed the subject. Guess they didn’t want to talk about wives any more, be they first, second, or even third wives.

Oh, and as for the contest, I think I won!

One year for Christmas when I was a kid, I was delighted when one of the gifts I opened was a metal detector. A real metal detector! Now I could go exploring! From what I’d heard, those things were amazing. I couldn’t wait to try it out and visions of all the treasure I’d find were all I could see. Rare coins, jewels, gold nuggets, lost medallions, and Indian artifacts; who knew what all I would find.

But then, reality. As you may know, Christmas is in winter. And winter, where I lived, meant snow. That year we had lots of it. I had to wait nearly three months before spring arrived. But the first Saturday after the snow was gone, I grabbed my metal detector and rode my bike straight to the park. My fortune awaited!

Confident I would return a richer boy, I chose a systematic approach, walking back and forth through the grass, moving over slightly with each pass. The first thing I discovered was that the term “metal detector” is not synonymous with “money finder.” While I did find a lot of treasures; nuts and bolts, washers, and an extraordinary amount of unidentifiable pieces of metal, there was no cache of wealth to be had.

But I was a stubborn sort and I covered the whole park before admitting defeat. After a couple of hours, I did manage to find a few coins—mostly pennies—but sadly, they were far from rare. And as you can guess, I still didn’t find anything of real value. No buried chest full of gold or silver. In fact, not even a buried chest. No bags of jewels, no ­­­gold, and no priceless heirlooms. Nothing. Good thing too, I guess, since I hadn’t had the forethought to take anything along to carry my loot home.

While it wasn’t a very productive outing, (I’d have been better off to hang out in the grocery store parking lot waiting for people to drop change as they got into their cars), the day was not a total loss. I unearthed something like .47 cents! Big time! But then, heading toward my bike, the day got a little better. I found a dollar! No, not a silver dollar. It wasn’t even a coin. I found a paper dollar. Yep, those metal detectors are amazing!

What’s that? There’s no metal in paper dollars? True. So, how did I find it? Simple. It was blowing across the grass in front of me!

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my troubles of breaking down or, more accurately, my truck breaking down at work—and quite frequently, I might add. I literally couldn’t go more than a day or two without something breaking. Well, I’m happy to report that I’ve been assigned a new truck—a brand new truck! Great, right? Maybe not.

The truck rides nice, the seat is comfortable, it smells clean and new, and the paint is oh, so shiny! So, for the superficial, and ultimately unimportant stuff, they’ve got it covered. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. The Check Engine light is constantly on, the cruise sometimes works, and the transmission well, it takes a little coaxing.

Given my recent run of bad luck, I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised when, on only my second night in the truck, it broke down. But not to worry, the mechanic said when he arrived, it was nothing major.

Nothing major? The truck would not run and there I sat, stranded on the highway—again! That’s kind of “major” to me. Actually, the guy did have it fixed pretty quickly and I was only a little late in getting home. Still, I would think a brand new truck would last more than a measly two days. Two days! But, as I was told, I have unreasonable expectations.

I don’t think I do. Not anymore. I fully expect the saga to continue!

“Just get to the point,” my wife often tells me. She doesn’t like my longwinded setups that I feel are necessary to a story. Too wordy, she says. My computer sometimes agrees with her. With that in mind, I’ll try to keep this short.

When I was a kid, during one of our family’s many travels, we saw a bum or, vagrant if you prefer, who had caught a ride inside a brand new car being transported by truck—a car hauler. Or, as truck drivers call them, a portable parking lot. A modern-day hobo who’d traded riding the rails for more luxurious accommodations. The guy seemed quite content; dry and comfortable on his journey to wherever he was going. At the time we thought it was odd but later I learned that this happened quite a bit due to the cars being left unlocked during transport— a practice that has since been changed. Apparently, the car companies didn’t like the idea of new cars showing up at the dealership with that lived-in look.

I’ve hauled cars a few times in my illustrious trucking career, and mindful of the possibility, I always made sure to check the vehicles for unwanted passengers anytime I had stopped. Like the car companies, I’m not in to giving out free rides. I never had the “pleasure” of finding any passengers, although I have seen a few from my lofty perch in the cab of my truck.

These days, with the electronic locks and advanced alarms, stowaways on car haulers aren’t much of a problem. Sure, these sophisticated systems can easily be defeated provided you have the right equipment but the typical vagrant seeking a cheap fare doesn’t usually carry an RF transmitter capable of accessing the Remote Keyless Entry. And even if they did, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have the technological knowledge to use it.

Consequently, it’s been several years since I’ve seen anyone bumming a ride in a portable parking lot. That is, until this past week. I was passing a car hauler and glanced over just in time to see the guy—stretched out in the back seat of a Dodge Charger.

And the point of all of this? (I hear my wife asking). Nothing really. Just something to ponder as you make your next vehicle purchase.

I’m sure everyone has heard the expression, The greatest thing since... (Fill in your own marvelous invention, the wheel, indoor plumbing, or electricity). I think “sliced bread” is one of the most popular. At least that’s what I’ve heard most often.

But I like to be different; to say things my own way, and somewhere back in my early teens, I decided “sliced peanut butter” was the appropriate ending for that saying. The expression on people’s faces and the puzzled looks they gave me were sometimes hilarious. Of course, those who did not appreciate my humor always made it a point to inform me that peanut better is not sliced. Really? And one person even felt compelled to enlighten me as to how dumb I was for making such a statement.

I just laughed. I’m not sure what the appropriate response to that would be. And, I didn’t let it stop me. I continued to repeat the saying—along with many others. But this was my favorite. When my kids got old enough to actually hear what I was saying, they all tried to “help” me, their “old” dad, who they must have thought was going senile.

Then one day, in the course of my travels as a truck driver, I was sent to pick up a load of snacks from the plant where they were made. The load wasn’t ready so, I had to wait. As a lot of places do, they had a driver room where we could watch the production. Imagine my amusement when I saw the assembly line for crackers and peanut butter snacks. The crackers came down a conveyor belt, where the peanut butter was then added—not squirted, as I would have thought, but in slices. Yep, slices! In order to keep a uniform consistency, I was told, the peanut butter was formed into logs, chilled, and then sliced. What a great idea!

After that, I didn’t hesitate to tell anyone who objected to my little saying that they were wrong. I think my kids were the only ones who appreciated it though. At the time, I couldn’t help but think it was nice to be vindicated. Great actually. The greatest thing since, wait—this WAS sliced peanut butter!