SPIKE BUYS A PHOTO ALBUM

Spike and I went yard sailing Saturday. Spike is my brain tumor, and since we are going to be together for awhile, I decided to name him. Actually, he picked the name Spike. I wanted to call him Leon.

We had a poor start. I had a headache and wanted to sleep in, but Spike kept calling me Nancy-boy, so I threw back the covers and we hit the road. Despite the pleasant weather not many folks were holding sales. And the first three were duds. Nothing but baby clothes and Family Dollar do dads. I was ready to head for home, but Spike insisted we keep looking for loot.

Spike fancies himself a pirate. To him, yard sale signs are treasure maps and he's always ready to dig for booty. He'll swagger across a yard full of junk, despite his limp, searching for pieces of eight, McCoy pottery, old books, gold doubloons, and vintage fishing lures. The pirate wants me to wear an eye patch. I might do it if it will shut him up.

Spike pointed out a yard sale sign I missed. I hit the brakes and made the turn. We drove a couple of miles but couldn't find the place. I was ready to give up but Spike told me to keep driving. We rounded a curve and found the joint. Spike starting singing something about a bottle of rum as we got out of the car. Now, Spike ain't got the best voice, and people were starting to snicker, so I told him to shut the hell up.

I found a bunch of books. Four leather bound Jeppesen Airway Manuals,
a couple of turn of the century religious pamphlets, and an old telephone directory from Virginia.

Spike found another old photograph album. Spike likes to pretend the photos of strangers he finds at yard sales are his family. When the woman holding the sale asked Spike if he was creating an instant family, Spike told her, "My relatives aren't that good looking and I'm replacing them with a better looking class of people."

That's Spike. The guy's a nut.