Safety Fork, the

Lately my brain seems to be putting thoughts to the tune of hymns, at least where the first line is similar enough to be fungible. Two examples (the tunes will be obvious):

1. A few weeks ago I drove a couple hundred miles to visit my brother where he is a church youth director. Having seen the church’s recent addition of a ground-level fellowship hall, I wondered to what use was the old basement put. Hence:

   The church basement foundation is made of cement blocks
   Its footings rest upon deep, immovable bedrocks
   Without, the fertile topsoil by gentle rains renewed
   Within, the parishioners partake of potluck food

2. And tonight, after having dinner with friends in downtown Minneapolis, I enjoyed driving home into the sunset and twilight (one of my favorite times to drive):
   

   You were there when I learned the gears to shift
   You were there when I learned the clutch to lift
   Oh, sometimes it caused the car to sputter, shudder, and stall
   You were there when I learned the gears to shift

I took advantage of two sunny days in after a week of unseasonably chill and snowy weather to engage in a little automotive therapy. The Miata I bought last September has been in the garage since November. I had been holding out for a warm day, but with three more days of snow in the forecast, I wasn’t sure when would be my next good—or even mediocre—opportunity.

Aside, I am annoyed by the malfunction of people who leave public facilities in worse condition for their use. For the second time inside a month I have used the air hose at the local gas station I frequent (they are one of the few local places that have diesel for my New Beetle). A lot of stations these days seem to have weak, ill-maintained, coin-operated compressors, but this one has a real, shop-pressure hose, gratis. Nevertheless, previous customers have left the hose a tangled mess every time I have needed to use it. Surely a minute of time is not too much to ask in return for a useful service provided as a courtesy.

Driving the Miata—’though still in need of a name—was as fun as I recalled through the mental fog of a cold Winter. Now I just need either a 50F day or an extra measure of thermal fortitude so I can put the top down.