Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

Guess who’s back ‘in town’? (Ok, better to start with the more impersonal pronoun, given the subject of the question is more ‘what’ than ‘who’.  But then again, ‘where’ this implied reunion is taking place is, arguably, more necessary, if, for no other reason than to provide a reasonable basis for the order of assumptions, upon which a satisfactory answer is predicated).

Whew! Got that out of our system, not a moment too soon!

Kristi, the host of the Finish The Sentence Friday (FTSF), has invited us to rejoin in the Friday fun.

(Personal note: this, well, the original FTSF, was the first bloghop we participated in, way back in our first years in the ‘sphere. It was, in small part, responsible for the recently started Wakefield Doctrine blog to dramatically expand our horizons in the virtual world. And Kristi, who was a rising star with this ‘hop was instrumental in our feeling encouraged to join in the fun.)

Seeing how we really need to finish this here sentence here:

“I was going to write, but…”

…you know how, as an adolescent* you and your smallest circle of friends, i.e. the one who was your first friend and surprised you from time to time by being a jerk when in certain company, and the friend that was acquired shortly thereafter, who was mostly nice, and the one, can’t quite remember their name, but their face sticks to the memory, had your first cars? And, being first cars, their condition wasn’t always, you know, exactly showroom. And there was that time, you were all out when you weren’t supposed to be, doing things that you were forbidden to do…and the car died in the middle of your race against curfew? And, being that era, (in the Era of Used Cars within Financial Reach of boys and girls not yet the official age of majority), the only recourse available to your group of would-be miscreants, was to jump start the car? And, the geography being un-helpfully flat, the only way to get the car up to speed to make a jump start possible was if everyone got out and pushed. And you ran along side the car, left hand on the open door-frame, right hand on the inside of the open window and pushed. The car was almost up to speed and your lungs were screaming ‘Oxygen, Oxygen’ and you couldn’t stop to rest and somehow kept going until the car lurched ahead as the engine engaged and, (somehow), you put on a burst of speed, run-jumped back into the front seat (shotgun) and everyone laughed as the car took you home in time?

… I was more afraid to stop writing than I was of writing stuff that looked too silly to hit ‘Publish’ on.

The End.

(And we didn’t get into trouble, that night)

* in a certain time, decade, year when the state of automotive technology was consistent with the story above.