When Is It Time?

When Is It Time? 

By John R. Greenwood

When is it time to part ways with things that have served us well? This pair of sketchy Sketchers is a perfect example. I have a closet full of shoes, boots, and sneakers to choose from every morning when I head out the backdoor, but one pair of shoes always seems to end up on my feet. Like a favorite hoodie or pair of Levi's, we sometimes develop a relationship with items that give us comfort. I've been slipping my feet into these tired old shoes since I retired a few years ago. I've said my goodbyes more than once, only to retrieve them from the abyss with an apology and another day's worth of yard work. It's a split between wearability and respect for something that has never let me down. This premise includes everything from pickup trucks and lawnmowers to slippers and work gloves. For me, it's more than being frugal and squeezing the last bang out of a buck; it's about giving inanimate objects their due. It's hard to turn your back on something that has held up their end of the bargain. Many can relate to this simple story of a beaten-up pair of leather shoes. It extends to our interpretation of the world and how we live our lives. Taking the time to appreciate the little things around us doesn't cost a thing. In fact, it's a habit that pays big dividends in the Bank of Karma. 

My sketchy Sketchers are safe for now. 

We both have work to do. 

The Obituary of Leaf Rake

The Obituary of Leaf Rake 

By John R. Greenwood

Leaf Rake 

October 25,1100 B.C. — November 19, 2020

Saratoga Springs, NY

Leaf Rake, age 3120, passed away this morning on West Ave., Saratoga Springs. Mr. Rake was born in China in 1100 B.C. His first years were spent clearing fields of leaves and plant refuse. His childhood friends described him as being made entirely of wood—wooden tines attached to a wooden head. His facial features remained wrinkle-free and relatively unchanged for his entire 3120 year existence. 

Leaf Rake graduated with honors from Garden State College at the age of 5. His hard work and long hours made him outstanding in his field. He never asked anything of his handler that he wasn’t willing to do himself. After college he spent centuries on farms all over the world. In the 20th century he committed his remaining years to suburban yards across the globe. He was never boisterous or condescending and was always willing to work in the front, side, or backyard at a moments notice. 

At the time of his death Leaf Rake lived in the dark recesses of sheds and garages. During his last days he might be found leaning against the back of the house, rusty and neglected. Leaf met his demise today at the hands of the “Blower Boys.” A posse of masked marauders in hoodies, brandishing gas-fueled death-wands of hurricane force winds. Leaf Rake was doomed. His manually operated handle and tines had zero chance of survival based on the shear numbers of his staggering opposition. 

I witnessed the murderous act in real time. It brought personal sadness and despair. Leaf Rake and I spent most of our lives together. When we were kids we made soda and candy money together. We bonded instantly. We went from elementary school through high school together. When I needed money for the movies or a new bike tire, Leaf was there. He never let me down. When we got older and started families of our own, Leaf and his cousin Garden would show up at my house to help seed the new lawn or fill in the low spots over the septic tank. He let my rambunctious sons play pretend landscaper minutes after they’d used him as a makeshift axe on the old maple out front. He and his cousin were tough cookies right to the end. 

As the scene above unfolded I pulled over to the side of the road. I yelled out in anger but my voice was smothered by the roar of two-stroke horsepower. My efforts were nullified by progress and the unstoppable future. A tear rolled down my cheek, and as it did an oak leaf floated in my truck window as if to say, “Don't worry, Leaf's okay and you will be too. You two had a good run together. You made memories and money. You bent his back, he gave you blisters, but you remained friends until the end. You both paid your dues, let the Blower Boys have their fun. Things always come full circle. Someday you’ll both be remembered fondly for your hard work and low maintenance."

"Most of all be proud of all those mountainous leaf piles of autumn you two made." 

"The Blower Boys can’t do that now, can they?"

RIP Leaf Rake 

Child's Play

Child's Play
By John R. Greenwood

I can assure you that the term "child's play" does not refer to the assembly of children's play equipment. It looked simple online. In the confines of my already burgeoning side of the garage I foolishly bit off more than I was ready to chew this afternoon. The rain drops were spaced just close enough that I was afraid to test my dark-cloud luck, so I cleared a swath big enough to build a one room bungalow and dug in. 




After not reading the directions first--I started with the foundation. 

All you had to do was unfold the walls and throw on the roof, right? Umm, slow down Scooter. There was a package of assorted wood screws in the bottom of the box that had more screws in it than my side porch. There were strips of wood and bags of plastic pieces/parts that looked like they might have fallen off a Home Depot delivery truck. I was not deterred. I had a hard time getting in my assemblage rhythm but as the bungalow began to take shape I began to imagine my grandsons scooting in and out of the door, ringing the door bell and stuffing their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the mailbox. I picked up my pace. It wasn't long before I realized the reviews regarding assembly time must have been based on a full "This Old House" crew. Or, they organized an old fashioned Amish barn raising and used the participants to put it together. Nevertheless, I was confident I could have a certificate of occupancy before the dusk-to-dawn lights on the garage clicked on. 

On a more serious note. These are the spring and summer projects we so desperately needed. This winter wore all of us down to a nub. We all need an outdoor activity other than snowblowing. It will wear off in a month when the grass is knee high and the ticks are running off with the patio furniture, but for now it felt good to be outside again. This will be a short post because I'm running out of steam and the alarm is set at 4am when Monday will arrive and the race for the weekend will start all over again. 

If anyone is interested in renting a one room bungalow Monday-Friday for $25 per day, give me a call. Un-housebroken pets of any species are allowed, it's a dirt floor. 

Greenwood Stick Farm

Greenwood Stick Farm

By John R. Greenwood

Greenwood Stick Farm 

I own and operate the, Greenwood Stick Farm here in the foothills of the Adirondacks. It’s a 3/4 acre farm speckled with maple trees. They vary in height, girth, and degree of decay. Decay, if you didn’t know, is a friend of the Stick Farmer. It provides a never ending crop.  

Stick Farming is in my blood. Ever since I was young I’ve been involved in Stick Farming. It began around the time I reached double digits. My first harvest was on my friends property high atop “The Hill” in my hometown of Greenfield Center,NY. His family lived on one of the largest Stick Farms in Upstate NY. It consisted of acre upon acre of mature old maples whose branches seemed to rain down in an endless downpour of cracks, snaps, and crashes. Stick Farming on the “The Hill” required the involvement of all family members. Outside stick-pickers were subcontracted at $5.00 per three hours of sticks picked. The older more tenured stick-pickers (big brothers) had the more cushy job. They got to drive the pickup around collecting the harvested stick piles. The fun part came when the truck bed was full (?), and we got to jump in the back and ride the side-rail of the pickup down the hill to the, “Pile”. Unloading a freshly harvested crop of sticks is a lot more fun than loading, and the ride back to the stick-field was also faster and more exciting. It inevitably included a spinout or two followed by a gravel spinning run up the back driveway. As I look back, it wasn’t work at all. It was the most fun a boy could have growing up. Stick Farming and Leaf Harvesting provided me with more blisters and enjoyment than you could ever write a check for. I relive those wonderful memories every time I drive by “The Hill”. 

Third Generation Stick Farmer Caleb G. 

Now, though The Greenwood Stick Farm is much smaller and less exciting, I still enjoy the sights and smells of a post-storm harvest of a maple-stick crop. The farm is in good hands too. My grandson Caleb has inherited the stick-farmer gene. The first thing he does when he gets here to the farm is open the barn (cluttered garage) and pull out his John Deere. Within minutes he’s happily harvesting the current crop of sticks. Endless circles around the yard reveal sticks of every proportion and in the process the lawn smiles greenly as the weight of the world is lifted from it’s shoulders. 

Husqvarna Addict hiding from his wife

When my son asked why Caleb was so eager to help his grandfather harvest sticks but seemed disinterested in harvesting sticks in his own backyard I gladly explained. My sticks are organic and grow naturally. The sticks in his yard were the result of a chainsaw wielding father who became addicted to the roar of his Husqvarna and didn’t know when to say when. Those sticks are less brittle. The feel and texture are not the same as those grown and harvested naturally via Mother Nature’s wrath. A true stick farmer knows and appreciates the difference.  

Bumper Crop!

I’m sure this piece will stir the emotions and memories of some fellow stick farmers out there. I want to share one last sentiment. Life is pretty special. The news that gurgles up these days would make you think otherwise. There comes a time in the day or week where we have to disengage our minds from the madness and chaos that seems as endless as a crop of sticks. If we don’t pull over and park for a minute, we will have missed the point of being here. Whether you derive joy from painting a landscape, riding a Harley, reeling in a bass, or walking the dog, it’s important to breathe the experience like it was your last. Happiness doesn’t need to include Disney or a Carnival Cruise. A pause on the way to the mailbox to savor the sight and sound of a passing flock of geese can soften a bad day. Wisdom doesn’t come from age, it comes from those little non-distinct pauses we take and how we absorb them. 

An old stick farmer once said,“Happiness can come before, during, or after the storm. The anticipation of a crack of thunder can heighten the senses. Viewing a lightening strike across town can make you appreciate the fact you're in the safety of your home. The rainbow that follows and the sight of a robin yanking up a juicy worm from the soggy side-yard should make you glad to be alive. The resulting blanket of fresh sticks strewn across your property should have you stomping in the puddles and smiling like a kid."

If not, you may have missed a turn. 

Go back and start again. 

Happy stick pickin’!  

Take a minute...

That Raking Sound

That Raking Sound 

By John R. Greenwood

There's something about the sound of a metal rake when it hits the ground for the first time each spring. For me, it "is" the sound of spring. Those metal tines whisking up winters leftovers is like a starters pistol signaling, "Go!"

I've been at this springtime lawn ritual for about fifty years now. Yes, October leaf raking can be invigorating, but wielding the rake in October is more like putting the kids to bed. Leaf piles signal it's time to sit back and relax and let winter drive for awhile. On the other hand, pulling out the $12 "Special Buy" Ace Hardware aluminum rake a week before Easter is what I've been looking forward to for months. It practically jumps from the dark recesses of the garage into my hands. The hands whose knuckles are chapped from the March winds but whose palms are soft and in need of some fresh rake-blisters. I head out to the edge of my property where the lawn ends and Waller Road begins, spit a, "let's do this," spit in the palm of each hand and let spring officially begin. A robin watches from a maple branch above hoping I unearth brunch for her and the kids. The Saturday morning sun warms the back of my neck, I take in a big whiff of leaf mulch and fresh earth, hit the ground with a good swipe and smile.

Life is good.

Rake on...

Fighting Back

Fighting Back

By John R. Greenwood

dry tires and rusty bolts

retire? 

nope

frayed wires 

squeaky joints

retire? 

get away from me

spit and sputter

swear and mutter

retire?

go to hell

faded paint

lights so faint

turn the key

and you’ll see

all the life 

still left in me

Couples

Couples

By John R. Greenwood

contentment glows in dog years

cold noses rubbing in the warm night 

tail waggin’ silliness 

romped happily in the side-yard

when the kids were still pups

peeing on the carpet

terrorizing the purr 

out of Fluffy

pretending to nip 

a skittish mailman

with quick skinny legs 

George and Gracie  

boundtogether

still in love

forever

The names of the dogs above have been changed to protect their privacy. They are farm dog friends and I look forward to visiting them whenever I am on the road. 

New Umbrella Then Comes The Rain

New Umbrella Then Comes The Rain
By John R. Greenwood

$49.97 was the ticket price. The bright blue stripes whistled at me from the corner. 

Not more than three hours earlier I pulled some of the lawn furniture out from the darkness of the cellar. With it came the yellow patio umbrella. The umbrella was intact, but it was as faded as a twenty year old curtain. I whispered in through the window screen to my wife,  "I think it's time to replace 'Old Yeller'". 

My wife knows that for me, the spring lawn fertilizer comes first, and any new lawn accessories second, so I think I caught her off guard. Being the perpetual decorator she is, she grasped the opportunity handed her and said, "How about something with a pattern for a change?" Being a veteran of the Husband Army for almost 40 years I stopped just short of a puss and just nodded in agreement. As an HA Veteran I learned in year 38 when to surrender. 

Jump ahead a few hours and I'm headed out on a solo flight to "Orange and Ugly" to search for a bolt I lost when winterizing my motorcycle. Did you notice how I jumped from lawn work to my motorcycle? That's what happens when men are left alone outside for too long. Anyway, I was in the home improvement store shopping for motorcycle parts when I spotted, "New and Blue" in the corner of the outdoor furniture department. The umbrella was just how my wife had described it. It was a nice fresh blue color with stripes. The best part was the price. They're only good for a couple of seasons anyway, why spend more than $49.97? 

I crept in the driveway hoping to sneak the new umbrella into the center of the table as an unexpected surprise. I knew the person inside was baking me a fresh apple pie. I wanted to reciprocate my appreciation. Sometimes things just fall into place, uncharacteristically, today was one of those days. I found the bolt I needed at "Orange and Ugly" and Mrs. G. loved her new umbrella. Her decorating instincts intact, she was right again, the stripes did look nice.  

We were looking forward to tomorrow being another sunny spring day so we could sit in the backyard and enjoy some fresh air under our new addition, but as you know, all good stories must come to an end. This one pulled up short on Sunday morning when I awoke to the sound of pelting rain on "New and Blue". 

Well, it was a good run, I really didn't want to take the motorcycle out for a ride either. 

Arlington Roosters

Arlington Roosters

By John R. Greenwood

I saw roosters today

 playing with the children

so happy 

Spring finally arrived 

they danced 

and sang

and crowed 

till the cows came home

Face To Face

Face To Face
By John R. Greenwood

2012
View from the Gulley Milkhouse

There was a time when fear ran my life; fear of change, fear of the unknown. Now as I approach the latter portion of my life I can't get enough of it. Today I completed a mission I began over a year ago. It was at that time I had been out on the road with one of my bulk milk drivers picking up milk from local farms. 

On that morning I had the pleasure of meeting the owners of one of those farms. Their names were Ed and Carol Gulley. The first time I visited their farm I was taken in by the glass head pictured at the top of the post. Ed and Carol have various antiques and oddities decorating the buildings on their property. At the time I really just wanted a photo of the glass head. My second visit found me trying to muster the courage to ask if it might be for sale. By my third and most recent visit I had made up my mind that the face of glass was going home with me. Farmers are busy people. They don't have time for nonsense. I was hesitant to disrupt the flow of the Gulley's daily routine. When we arrived the other day I kept a watchful eye for Ed or Carol. I made up my mind that I would simply go for the gold and get right to the point with the first one I saw. The problem is you don't always see them. They have more to do than worry about the driver picking up their milk. The farmer has his job to do, the driver has his. The Gulley's dogs were clearly audible out back. Ed or Carol couldn't be too far away. The milk was almost all pumped out and I was running out of time. A few minutes later I heard Carol talking to the dogs. I quickly went outside and said hello. I told her I was glad to be back and how nice it was to see her again. Right now though I needed to get down to business. "Carol," I said, "would you consider selling the glass head in the milk house window? I have wanted to ask that question since the first time I saw it." 

She smiled like I might have more dollars than sense. In actuality she smiled because she knew the feeling. It was evident by Ed and Carols collection that they suffered from the same picker-syndrome that I did. Carol graciously offered to find Ed to see what his thoughts were.

When we finally had everyone together the bargaining began. It was fun to dicker back and forth. We finally struck a deal, shook hands, and I took possession of my new friend. It was one of those have-to experiences that you can't explain you simply go with it. 

When I placed my new friend in the crook of my arm I looked at Ed and Carol and with great courage I blurted out,"I was wondering where the derby went that was on his head the last time I was here? I was hoping that might be for sale too? With the seriousness of a doctor giving you bad news but with a slight twinkle of the eye, Ed replied,"The goat ate it." 

Ah, life on a farm. Ain't it a hoot?

November 2013
Wearing his new wool hat, C. Klearlee checks out the scenery in his new home at The Greenwood's

 

Random Act of Customer Service

Random Act of Customer Service

By John R. Greenwood

It happened right out of the blue. I didn’t see it coming. The day was a little rainy and hadn’t decided what direction it was going to go. It didn’t want to rain, yet the sun was missing. It was a Saturday morning and my wife had to work a half-day. I would be left all alone. That usually results in something getting broken or misplaced. My plan was to drop Mrs G off then go shopping for a few things out at what I call our town’s ‘Vegas Strip.’ It’s a  Mall+Plaza+Medical+Grocery Store+Bank+Fast Food+Big Box Bonanza where you can’t find anything from what you want, to what you need. I was as free as a grown man with a wallet should be allowed to be and I didn’t need something and I was going to go look for it. 

I will get to that Random Act of Customer Service in a moment. First I want to explain what’s wrong with the world today--it will only take a minute. 

I was standing in line at Big Blue and Yellow when I looked over at the little hunk of real estate where they house Big Box Disney. You know, that glass encased hand-crank crane where for a handful of quarters you can try your luck at grabbing a stuffed animal by the neck. Sometimes they have a fine-jewelry machine where you can buy an engraved bracelet with your girlfriends name on for the same price as a sleeve of 24 Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. There’s always a mini-carousel with a fiberglass horse whispering to your child’s sense of adventure as you attempt to get by without shelling out your hard earned cash. That’s where I spotted mom in the middle of mini-Disney. She was wielding a basket of kids, and they were jumping around like a gymnastics' team of 5 year-olds.. One was being asked to get in the basket with her brother. “No!” she snapped. “I want to walk.” Mom never flinched, she said, “No, we can’t go fast when you walk.” I closed my eyes, lowered my head, and burst through the war zone. I’d been there before--I have a decent memory. And that folks is what’s wrong with the world today. We ran off the tracks. We’re going 90 mph and we don’t know why. Our children can’t talk fast enough, drive fast enough or eat fast enough. The world is whizzing by their little faces so fast they think they’re on a thrill ride. It’s not mom’s fault she’s doing what we’re all doing; trying to keep up with the train. We need more stuff, fast stuff, so we can get there before the competition. We don’t want arrogant babies but you know you hate seeing them come in second. We push and pull them until they can’t go anymore and then when they say they want to walk, we say, “Too Slow.” Things will slow down at some point. At some point it will again be cool to walk, talk, and breathe slow. The train will come back this way and we’ll jump on board. Hopefully it’s going back up the hill where the view is better. 

Now back to that Random Act of Customer Service. 

When I left Big Blue and Yellow I stopped at one of those stores that sell crafting items like foam balls and plastic flowers. Earlier in the week I purchased some clear epoxy resin for a project I was doing and I needed some of those small plastic measuring cups to ensure I used the right ratio of resin to hardener. I thought a craft store would sell them by the gross. Of course every time I think I get in trouble. Today was no different. The only package they had included brushes, stirrers and six cups all for a mere $10.50. After scouring the aisle for assistance I finally found an employee who was nice enough to ensured me they were the only ones they sold. I counted to ten, and summoned that little voice on my shoulder. The voice of reason who always tells me to stop being such a grump and just relax, open your wallet, pay the cashier and go home--life’s too short. It worked. I gathered my senses and stepped up to the register, placed my $10.50 worth of plastic cups on the counter and smiled. Sharon the pleasant cashier must have sensed my pouty aura and asked, “Did you find everything you were looking for?” Smiling and now as calm as a coma, I replied, “Yes, I just hate paying $10.50 for that little package of cups.” Sharon should be the next inductee to the Cashier Hall of Fame because she read me perfectly. She grabbed a coupon next to the register and scanned it. It provided a generous discount and sealed me as a lifetime customer. She never batted an eye. You don’t find employees like that everyday. Reading the customer has become a lost art. Scanners and self-checkout have removed all the personality from our shopping experience. There are a handful of Sharon’s out there and when you run into one you want to tell everyone you know. It was a very small thing in the realm of life but it made me want to leave the store shouting at the top of my lungs. Let’s just say it made my day. When I left the store I walked especially slow. I wanted to enjoy the moment. So you see, there’s is hope. Customer Service is clinging on for dear life. I was lucky enough to experience Sharon doing her best to save it. 

Barking Mad

Barking Mad
By John R. Greenwood

I photographed this dog at the Saratoga Racecourse. He was barking through the slats of the backstretch fence. His obvious look of displeasure made me think he might be yelling at the thoroughbred who just came in fourth in the 8th Race. I pictured 'Barking Mad' betting away a weeks worth of kibble on a horse named, "Lucky Dog." I imagined the conversation going something like this.

Barking Mad: "What the hell happened? You looked like a bowl of cold molasses by the 3/4 pole!"

Horse named 'Lucky Dog': "I told you this morning that my arthritis has been driving me bonkers and that you should box me with #5 'Forever Young'!"

Barking Mad: "Yeah, well I have a doghouse payment to make or I'm back in the shelter at the end of the meet. You were 30/1. Just one win and my problems would be over. Last night you said the rest of the field would feel more at home in my dog dish!"

Horse named 'Lucky Dog': "I don't know what you want me to say. That new jockey they threw on me felt like he'd made a few too many trips through the buffet line." 

Barking Mad: "All I'm saying is you better make up for it next week in the Jim Dandy. I had to sell my Westminster Dog Show tickets on Ebay to get enough money to stay afloat this week."

Horse named 'Lucky Dog': "Alright, alright I get it. I will do my best. Meanwhile can you get me that filly's number from the barn over on Nelson Ave. You promised me last week. Maybe a lap or two around the Oklahoma with her will loosen up my knee. Hey, didn't you tell me she had a bit part in the movie Seabiscuit?" 


Barking Mad: "Yeah, she milked the press on that gig until the DVD went platinum. 
Stop trying to change the subject, just be sure you win by three lengths. I want to be counting my money until the cow comes home."

The Cow- Thinking about coming home...

Rail Hanging

Rail Hanging
By John R. Greenwood

Saratoga Racecourse 2013

Rail Hanging is child's play. A wide smooth railing is preferable. Curious children are best suited for the sport where joy and wonder are expressed by a pair of swinging feet alternating between right and left. Bright little sneakers with clean white laces showcase the sport at it's finest. Professional Rail Hangers will machine gun random questions to anyone within five feet to either side. "What's the horses name?" or "Can we ride him?" A veteran rail hanger can hang for eternity, causing an overprotective grandparent undue stress and anxiety. Mostly though, rail hanging brings back memories of the farm where you played as a child. The sights and sounds swarm your mind with every swing of the rail hangers feet. A transformation takes place and suddenly you are leaning on the rail, feet planted on the outside, swinging and singing on the inside. 

Sleeping In Your Eggs

Sleeping In Your Eggs 

By John R. Greenwood

Compton's has been a Saratoga Springs landmark for over thirty years. I was a milkman throughout the 1980's and John Compton was one of my best customers. I delivered milk there every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday for over ten years. I would get there about 4-5am. That was early Saturday morning for a milkman and late Friday night for the Caroline Street leftovers (Insert your name here-you know who you are). The restaurant would be packed with a vibrant collage of personalities, each one trying to speak over the other with another tall tale of the night. Most of the booths would be packed with happy drunks hungry after a long week of hard work and a short night of hard drinking. One morning I was lugging in a couple cases of milk and I see this kid sound asleep in a booth with his face buried in a plate of 'over-easy' eggs snoring little yellow yoke bubbles with every exhale. He was having his own version of breakfast in bed. It was free entertainment for me and everyone around him. I continued on to the kitchen like it was just another day on the job. When I asked John the owner what he was going to do he just smiled that ear-to-ear grin of his and said, "Nothing. I'll let him sleep it off. I found if I try to wake them up, they come up swinging. I let them wake up on their own, pay the bill and leave. No sense calling the cops, he hasn't hurt anyone." John was like that, calm and easy going. He also had kids of his own. He knew the drill. 

This post was initiated by a painting by Saratoga Artist Robert Wheaton. Robert had done a painting of Compton's as part of his Saratoga Diner Collection. His post ignited this memory and many others that I collected in my years as a Saratoga milkman. It was so much fun I think I will dig up a few more to add to my, "Days as a Milkman" Collection. 

Red Wagon Society

Red Wagon Society 

On Saturday morning the Red Wagon Society met to discuss the upcoming planting season. 'Wide Red' as the young Flyers like to call him asked everyone to gather around so they could review the list of Red Wagon Rules and Regulations for the 2013 Season: 

1. No squeaking before 10am. If your wheels are dry be sure to get over to the WD-40 shed and get them sprayed.
2. Be cautious with anyone under the age of six. Children under six forget that the wagons are for plant transport only and are not toys. There were several mishaps in 2012 and insurance premiums have soared because of it. 
3. Every wagon must now punch out for lunch. The NYS Labor board cracked down this year after they received several reports that some wagons were working through their lunch hour just to get extra road time. This is no longer allowed under NYS Red Wagon Regs.
4. There is a meeting planned for next weekend after closing. At that time we will discuss putting together a fundraiser to get 'Rusty Bottomside' painted. He is the oldest wagon in the fleet and we felt it would be a nice gesture if everyone pitched in for a new coat of wagon red. New decals were donated by the Radio Flyer Production Plant and should arrive in two weeks.
5. We are expecting bigger than normal crowds this season because of the spread of Green Thumb disease. It is expected to peak this season and nurseries and greenhouses are looking forward to record breaking profits. 
6. Recently it was brought to the attention of management that some wagons have been secretly talking about getting yellow flames painted along their sides with their first big paycheck of the year. We want to remind every wagon here today that they signed a Moral Code of Conduct on Easter Sunday and it clearly states that flames were deemed unwagon-like and have therefore been added to the banned practices list on page 14 of your contracts. 
7. Last but not least we have all been invited to participate in this years Wheels For Wagons 5k. All proceeds go to benefit retired wagons who can't afford to get their wobbly wheels aligned or replaced due to cut-backs by the present Wagon Administration. The first 25 participating wagons will receive a WFW sticker for the back of their wagons.