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Monday, March 31, 2014


This is a true short story all here to be entered at
My continued story will be here tomorrow.
In days of yore we use an antiquated term believed to be Scottish in origin, to express walking which was by Shank’s Mare.  

So many times in response to the question, “How you going to get there?” I would say “By Shanks Mare,” meaning I was going to walk.

The time came when I was ever so slightly beyond Shank’s Mare and owned a Push-Mobile.  It was ride a little and then push a little.  The trunk was always full of old tires, tubes and patching along with a jack or two and oh yes, a hand pump.

I had a 25’ Chevy for a while then I moved up to a 29’ Chrysler which each time I parked I had to raise the hood and turn the fan back a half turn so the water wouldn’t leak out of the water pump.

Such idiosyncrasies were of no bother for I was beyond Shank’s Mare and everyone knew it.

It wouldn’t be long in each case my push-mobile would become a junk-mobile and expendable.  The thing was I was always just ten dollars away from new wheels, usually with a horn that blows.

But then for some reason I hit a dry spell and had to do my courting via public transportation which left my hands free for a little hugging and smooching without endangering our lives.

We took our short honeymoon in a borrowed car and managed shortly thereafter to buy a 35’ Plymouth.  Our first moves were in that car.  We just put all our belongings in the rear seat and moved to the next place.

Some sixty odd years later I have had a variety of old and new cars but those ten and fifteen dollar cars still hold a fond place in my heart for it was them that got me beyond “Shank’s Mare.”
This post is shared at: Tell Me a Story

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