It was a three George weekend

Without any real forethought on my part, I recently spent a weekend visiting three Georges in three days.

It all started with a stop to see George M, to return a roasting pan I had borrowed. It is a family heirloom, large enough to cook a 24-pound turkey every Christmas, and tough enough to dance a jig on. They don’t even make cars that tough anymore, let alone a lowly roasting pan. George M loves that roasting pan, and I can’t say as I blame him. If a cyclone ever hit the old farmhouse, the first thing I would crawl under is that old roasting pan. So, if you’re a bird at or under 24 pounds, watch out for George; because he will cook you and feed you to his family, with great gravy and little or no remorse.

Further on down the road, George P was having a birthday, three days before mine. He’s a fair shot older than me, but I wouldn’t remind him of it, unless you want a shot to the jaw. Sharing a birthday is a perfect excuse to get together for a drink, and it’s always an interesting visit with George P and his younger brother; who plays an old Gibson guitar and tries to sell new Harley Davidsons. He is much better at writing songs than selling Harleys, but has the charm to tackle both. The brothers often get together with Jim and Moe, who live a few doors down, and spend the bulk of their days sitting at a picnic table on the slim chance it is lighter than air and might float away. One used to be a bouncer and a cabbie, and the other is a dead ringer for Archie Bunker. Jim and Moe are old friends, and usually have about a dozen cigarettes, and half as many teeth, between them. All four like to play cards, and tell stories, and smoke until their eyes bleed. It would be quite a sight, if you could see through all the smoke.

From there, I met up with George F, who was marrying the woman he loves; which, if you think you need to get married, is an excellent place to start. George F is a great guy too; full of life, or beer, or a combination of both. He also makes a killer pot of baked beans, which fills everyone up with something else. He invited his closest friends and family to the wedding, opened the bar, and let the laughter and love come rushing in. The meal was exquisite, and lasted longer than some marriages.

George P and George F both live in Windsor, or ‘Sor as some of the locals call it. Parts of that town are still an open ‘Sor, but a lot are closed now, such as the places that used to make cars. I feel sorry for our border towns, where manufacturing jobs have dried up and died, and taken a good chunk of the city’s vitality with them.

What these towns need is a whole new attitude, and I would start by electing George and George and George to the ‘Sor city council and let them try and right the ship. George P could put people to work rolling cigarettes, while George F could take all the contraband collected at the bridge and sell it in stores at a reduced rate. George M could then take the surplus and buy roasting pans and turkeys for all the out of work auto makers.

I haven’t mentioned all this to the Georges, but I might, as soon as I get back down that road for a weekend.