Ernie Anderson

Once in a lifetime
I’m not one to brag, but I happen to be in possession of a rare photo of a hot air balloon floating over Lewiston. Believe you me, these types of pictures are not easy to come by, but I’m a journalist, by gum, and I tracked one down. Give me a quarter and I’ll let you see it.

Requiescet in pace …
On Wednesday, I stumbled into a “back-to-school” bash in Kennedy Park. It was a swell affair, I suppose, but to me having a party to celebrate the coming school season is like holding a funeral to mark the death of summer itself. I felt like I should have been wearing a black veil (I have one, you know) and sobbing openly into a hanky. Of course, I was already sad to begin with because they wouldn’t let me go in the bouncy house. Boy, you throw up just one time in a bouncy house and you get labeled a bouncy house thrower upper forever.

Break-in period?
The other day I found myself riding behind the nicest Corvette I’ve ever seen. It was all sleek and shiny with an assertive snout, curvy midsection and the proudest haunches you’ll ever see. That car was so clean and unblemished, you’d have thought it had just rolled off the assembly line. Sadly, in spite of the glamour, the ‘Vette had its issues. Seems the engine was incapable of attaining speeds over 25 mph, for one thing, even as we got out into the 45 mph zones. I kept waiting for the driver to open ‘er up, but nope. Moped speeds the whole way.  Butterflies were landing on it. Skateboarders were blowing past it on the sidewalks. All in all, it made me change my mind about what to buy during my coming midlife crisis. Now I’m thinking moped.

How you like me now?
I had a friend once who used to tell the ladies in bars that he drove a ‘vette in order to impress them. He wasn’t lying, either. Ol’ Vinnie drove a 1978 Chevette with three bald tires, rust spots everywhere and a passenger side window covered over with cardboard. It made for some awkward moments in parking lots, let me tell you.

Yeeeeehaw!
Speaking of wild rides, I had the opportunity to drive an old riding mower the other day and the clutch on that beast was so touchy, it almost bucked me off. Cowboy hat went flying, spurs jingled and jangled, and yelling “Whoa! Whoa, boy!” didn’t help at all. That’s right, I like to pretend I’m a cowboy when riding on a mower. What of it?