Should our Lady of Handicrafts really be driving the backwater byways? The interstate fast lane? Darla's sense of direction has always been off, and depth perception is a sketchy proposition for a gal with nyctalopia. At least we know the pick-up's parked for now somewhere between home and Morton Grove.
Showing up is half the battle. Isn't that what Ort always says? So why do I feel put-upon and, quite frankly, downright apathetic toward my body of work? Salvation via the scrap heap! I love what I do. And money doesn't buy … Gas tank's awfully low, though. Did I miss my chance back there? Darla Varney, you fudgewit!
The picnic table at the Easy Cedars Rest Area off Hwy 12 was as good a vendor booth as any Darla had worked recently. The senior citizens handing out complimentary coffee in Dixie cups and patrolling the grounds shouldn't hassle her too badly. Might even get one of these folks to pull out her wallet. Darla eyed a well-seasoned chap in an orange stocking cap approach her display.
"Hey little lady! What you got there?" The grizzled and bristly bearded man picked up one of Darla's tissue-paper-and-uncooked-spaghettini rabbits and turned it upside down.
"One slightly blackened soul," Darla replied as she watched the prospective shopper place the bunny against his ear and shake it.
"Sole? Huh. Aw hell, that reminds me of the time I worked aboard a fish processor with a bunch of Norwegians. They got to arguing over whether the saying is: He's got a wild hair up his ass. Or, he's got a wild hare up his ass." Darla tilted her head and sighed as she watched the man nibble the spaghettini whiskers of the snowy Kaninchen.
"I think with Scandinavians it could go either way. And that'll be seven bucks for the conejo."
Semi-Daily Scribbles 
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