I'm too sleepy to write anything

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By W.B. Evans

These days, it doesn’t take very much to put me in the mood to count sheep.

The labels on a couple of my prescriptions tell me it’s not smart to operate farm machinery since these medications  “may induce drowsiness.”

Guess what? That ain’t a big deal to me anymore.

At this stage of my life, I make it a point to stay away from hay combines or anything with John Deere written on the side of it.

In fact, I don’t have any intentions of messing with a garden hoe, much less a merry tiller.

I’d rather take a good nap.

When I was a boy sitting by the open hearth watching the flames dance in shadows around the room accompanied by the constant ticking of the grandfather clock, I’d get so sleepy I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

Of course, during those cool winter times all it took was one step away from the flames and into an unheated bedroom to get wide awake.

It’s no wonder I can hardly hold my head up right now. As I sit here, raindrops are spattering a pitter-pat song on the metal awning outside of my office.

Well, it’s not really an office, if you catch my drift.

Hey, years ago I could turn good cardboard into tanks, fighter planes and pirate ships.

So given that, why can’t I turn my bride’s sewing room into an office?

I mean, she did let me hook up  this computer thingamajig between a sewing machine, an ironing board and a Nordic Trak that doubles as a hat rack.

From this vantage point, I can easily step back in time to recall my boyhood adventures.

But right now, it’s pretty hard to write anything. The steady rain is making me so sleepy I can barely hold my head up.

I guess its time to give in. Since my office is only a few feet away from my La-Z-Boy, I think I’ll take a short stroll there and sit back and study on some stuff that happened years back.

Bless Pete, I must’ve dozed off for about 40 winks.

Sad to day, I still don’t  have any dreams to share.

I’m still kindly played out, I guess.

I feel sort of like Glen Campbell when he sang about being a lineman for the county and traveling the main roads.

Traveling those main roads can take a lot out of you. Maybe that’s the problem.

Why, only last week, returning from a routine trip up north and only 20 miles out of Florence, we came across a flashing roadside sign notifying us that we “may” expect a slight delay due to some road repairs.

When it comes to potholes and such, the highway folks don’t always tell us weary travelers the whole story.

They prefer to wait until both southbound lanes are bumper to bumper to tell us to merge over into the left lane.

You know, Interstate 95 is Charlotte Road 10 times worse, chocked with motorists. big trucks, U-Haulers, Florida humpback trailers and some Canadians looking for the sandy shores of Miami.

Let me tell you, I got so sleepy during that 90-minute crawl that I kept pinching myself to stay awake.

When we finally got up to the repair area, there were four fellas waiting for a cement truck to dump some concrete into a big square hole lined of rebar.

In fact, I noticed the contractor was from Pennsylvania. I had plenty of time to watch.

I guess he got bogged down in traffic like the rest of us so he just went to work on the roadway.

I can’t blame him, either. The stretch of I-95 that passes through South Carolina has the worst strip of highway I’ve traveled on.

It’s bumpy and not very much to look at.

Trash litters the overgrown grass. I don’t think it’s what Ike had in mind when he came up with the idea to create an interstate highway system.

I can’t figure it out; I-95 in North Carolina is super and is the finest road in the Commonwealth of Virginia.

I guess they get more federal road money than we do or they spend it on the highways repairs and not something else.

We’re too proud. Our governor doesn’t believe in government handouts.

When we made it home that day, I sure was glad to see our driveway. It was still there, but the garage fairy wasn’t.

If he doesn’t show up soon, I guess I’ll have to organize all my clutter out there.

But it’ll have to wait.

It’s raining.

Right now, there’s more important things to do. The bed covers are turned down. After a hot bath, nobody will have to rock me to sleep.

There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed. It’s not as good as a sitting by a toasty hearth, but it’s close.

Sweet dreams, y’all.