Ass Over Tea-Kettle

I'm a scared. The accumulated drips, leaks, fallen limbs, occult car noises, and wild fluctuations in temperature have me spooked. I wander the house looking for signs - like Vincent Price in the 'Fall of the House of Usher', of our inevitable doom. This morning, like a mountain man checking his traps, I baby-stepped my way down the ancient river bed of a driveway that I am re-naming Bower Brook (more on that later)to the old new Camry - which had been positioned close to the road in case.. and, though the river bed seemed passable (having frozen, thawed, and re-frozen during yesterday's psychotic weather) the car itself would not come to life. It cleared its throat, fahrted, groaned, shuffled its feet and emitted an odor of un-combusted gas but would not start. So of course, dressed like a mountain man, in my Maine Hunting Guide boots, my jeans soaked to my shins, I felt no embarrassment at all popping the hood and pretending I knew what I was looking at. Actually, I hoped to see a hunk of ice draped over a fuel line or a cable. But seeing none, I rapped on the metal surfaces, pulled at a few cables, and gave it a stern look before getting back in and turning the key again and again until I heard the faintest sound of life at which point I force fed the beast a few droppers of gasoline and nursed it to a sputtering start.. Well, that's all for now. Hope all is well down in the flatlands.