Another bryte day in Our Hazzard County

Some have sedd and I will here too, that if your going to be branded , myte as well use it. Thus, since the GL was mine once and from that came the fact that me turning a wrench and going towing, here in rural western Idaho I caught the nick name in 1981 as Crazy Cooter, like Ben Jones was on screen on the Dukes, I have led most of my life since as such. Now reality here lately hazz been byting my tail for some time. In that while I love vintage military warbyrds and all there really is no place at least in Western Idaho to apply that affection, but, like it or not , I do have LexiBelle, I can go tow so I'm getting grounded to doing just that. In tyme , build hot rydes under Cooter's Kustmz , but for the short haul just focus on going towing. What tyme I have outside of that will be focused on the Knytes-of-Anarchy, 60% Cooter's Towing, 40% Knytes-of-Anarchy.

Okay then , went down to Hazzard Creek yesterday fishing, something I really like doing. Caught 1 small catfish but the tyme I spend on the bank of Hazzard Creek, watching the ducks, coots and even the swans is peace without the pressure of technology. Just my bamboo fishing pole, orange peel, corn and bug bits, and as said peace. Noticed the tyre swing the Knytes and I put up years ago just over yonder from Hazzard Creek, going over to Oster Lakes is still there. I can remember a few of us, snagging a 12 pack of Colorado KoolAid, and some babes having a whoopdeue over there. That was back when I did not need worry about making a living, just building some of the most bad ass'd rydes in Hazzard County. Mom took care of the books and paid bills, Dad fetched the fixit contracts, and did the farm market gig, all I needed to do was fix the farm equipment, including both tractors and trucks. The rest of the tyme I went fishing, girl fetching and hot rodding. Nothing else was important. The memories from this old farm go far deeper than anyone can imagine. I'm very grateful that the folks who own the farm now, let me fish here on Hazzard Creek that runs between the farm, and the Brailsford canal. Any mile I'm finally home and realizing there are limits to reality versus fiction. Or dreams. I dream of flying, reality is going towing.

L8R

  

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