Must be the Mayor’s house

On the western road trips of my youth we would often pass the time behind the wheel with mindless banter to take our minds off of the fact that despite the euphoric feeling of being young, free, and mobile in America we still, according to the road side signs, had hundreds of miles to go before we were face to face with the “Worlds Biggest Ball of String” or fake turquoise baubles being sold by “Real Indians” or that icon of mid-century, western road trips, Tiny’s of Cashmere, Wa.
Whether it was a discussion of the origins of “nougat”, that stuff that somehow seems to have gotten inside all our candy bars, (we determined it was grown on the surface of rural ponds, secretly skimmed and collected, then surreptitiously inserted into the bars without our knowledge or consent…probably by Haliburton……it could happen) or in turn expounding in great detail why each of us sucked worse than any human being to have ever disgraced the planet. As far as we were concerned we had it made. Best friends piloting our own wheels, on our own far from home. Independent.
One of these road games, repeated at every crossroads that could be reasonably defined as a town, was to identify the biggest most beautiful home once inside the city limits and declare loudly and suddenly “That must be the Mayor’s house!”. Seems kind of stupid in hindsight but we laughed like it was the funniest line ever every time. Interesting that when you are nineteen and on the road with your best buds everything is hysterically funny. If you caught your compadre dozing or unprepared and he flinched or was startled when you shouted it out for the umpteenth time, well….that was just further proof of what a loser he was.
So…fair warning.
Currently for sale. Contact me if you’re in the neighborhood.


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