This is going to be an odd post. I’m not even sure what I’ll write. As of this moment and as I sit here and think, I’ve yet to conjure up anything that seems remotely cohesive. I suppose though, I’ll try my best. For me, that’s what these types of situations call for – my best. The issue at hand is that I’m feeling a certain way and I’ve yet to determine an effective articulation for those feelings.

Back in the 1990s, there was a quarterback for the New York Giants named Dave Brown. I remember watching him play. He was one of the best quarterbacks I’ve ever seen throw a ball. When Dave was on, he was really on. And when he was in this state, he seemingly transformed the football into a missile. Such accuracy and elegance. And speed! Boy, I remember watching those games when Dave was playing well. It was like nothing could stop him.

Throughout my life, I’ve lived in New York, Georgia, Connecticut, Florida, and Maine. I’ve never really concerned myself with my cars rusting out until I arrived in Maine. In New York and Connecticut, yes, the winter roads are sanded and salted, but I’m not sure I noticed any discernable difference between when I purchased a vehicle and when I sold it, rust-wise. Nothing ever seemed to happen in a bad way. That’s not to mean that cars don’t rust in those states because they certainly do. I have a long history of family members needing to repair holes in their floorboards – you know the type; you’re a little kid driving down the road with your father in his old truck. You can see the blacktop and painted street lines pass you by underneath your feet. Yeah, those good ol’ days.