Under the Wire

Road signs. There must be millions of them. No matter whether a simple county road, state highway or Interstate, the roads are lined with them. Their purpose, of course, is to give directions, speed limits, except on the Interstates where everybody ignores those signs and much more. Unknown to most, however, are other uses various folks have for them.

A past World Champion Livestock Auctioneer friend of mine is said to have taught himself to sell by rattling off his chant and taking imaginary bids as he passed a road sign. The unpredictability of their spacing simulated buyers randomly responding to his chant for a bid. Growing up with and working with some of the world’s best auctioneers, I have fostered a secret desire to learn the skill. I guess it’s no secret anymore. That’s OK because it looks like I’m never going to master it anyway. Part of my learning problem has been motorists honking their horns at me for driving 30 miles an hour so the darn signs would quit bidding so rapidly. I also couldn’t remember if a power pole bid was a hundred dollars, a speed limit post five dollars and what I should do about no-littering signs. I tell you, auctioneering is not easy, so I have found another use for those pesky signs. I now find humor in them. The guy who writes them has to have an odd outlook on life.

Our town is doing some major road rebuilding to our main east/west highway. Not only is our previously paved highway torn up, also torn up, hauled off and replaced by a two-mile three-foot deep trench, are our sidewalks. However, at the intersection of every previous street crossing, a dozen minimum, sits a nice little sign warning walkers, bikers and others “Sidewalk closed.” Talk about an understatement! More descriptive would be a sign proclaiming “sidewalk non existent” or more accurately, “we have no idea where the sidewalk is.” The guy who wrote the “closed” sign probably chuckles as much as I do driving by his subtle sidewalk humor.

Speed limit signs also entertain me, especially the yellow ones reminding us to drop to 55 miles an hour on sharp turns or exits.

We all have followed Ma and Pa cruising along at 40 miles per hour, enjoying a Sunday drive. I can just hear Pa saying, “Hold on Ethel, the sign says I got to go fifty-five around this corner.”

I like the “Fort Morgan 12 miles” signs when I think of a tourist from Vermont wanting to visit that town being relieved they and the car full of kids are almost there, only to find, the turn off to Fort Morgan is 12 miles away. The town is 65 miles away. Yep, that sign writer fellow has a warped sense of humor.

By the way, the next time you are following Ma and Pa Kettle easing along at a snail’s pace, please don’t honk. It scares Sue.