the wet road and stopped as a funeral motorcade passed by in the
opposite lane. First came the patrol car followed by the hearse,
then began the long line of vehicles driven by family and friends of
the deceased. Five minutes later we were still sitting on the side of
the road as headlight-burning vehicles continued to drive by. I
glanced over to see Timbo--his saliva retention affliction acting up
again--mesmerized by the “whump whump” of the windshield
wipers and the resulting strobelights.
“Hey! You can go now,” I said. “The funeral procession is over.” "Besides I didn't know you were the sentimental type."
Timbo said " I was the least I could do, we were married 35 years."
and they headed for the river...
