Now in my third week in town, I’m still getting the same question - what are you doing here? As many of you know, I’ve been with the paper to our south for the past 28 years. However, I recently had to leave employment there. Don’t worry, I wasn’t dipping in the company till or making googly eyes at fellow employees. No, it was something much worse – I’m running for office.
Since I’m not running for anything here and since they needed some help at the Review after the departure of my good friend Steve Warner a few weeks back, I got the call up. So now, I’m living a double life. By day, I’m your mild mannered news reporter at the Smithville Review. By night, I’m campaigning for office back in Warren County.
Of course, my campaign almost came to a screeching halt this week. Why? Scandal? Torrid affair? Breech of ethics? None of them. Try manslaughter. That’s right, my campaign nearly killed someone. Maybe I should explain.
So anyway, I’m cruising down Manchester Highway at about 55 miles per hour just minding my own business with my very large and top-heavy campaign sign bearing my name in the bed of a friend’s truck. I’m chatting with a friend when suddenly I catch something move out of the corner of my eye.
“MY SIGN!” I exclaim, hitting my brakes. It was too late. The large sign had already done a Dorothy out of the back of my truck and had taken flight like a big old gold and blue wooden kite.
As I slowed, I looked over at my friend. “Man, I sure was lucky that no one was …”
I was cut off mid-sentence as a pickup truck slammed into the wooden sign, splintering it into a million pieces.
The words I uttered at that point are not safe for work so I will not include them in this family newspaper.
I jumped out of the truck as I came to a halt on the shoulder and went running toward the truck that had just hit it.
“I’m in trouble,” I said to myself, visualizing someone pulling a splinter of wood out of their chest. “I’m so going to get sued.”
I could see the headline – “Candidate kills constituent.”
However, instead I was met by the driver who was busy gathering up pieces of my splintered sign.
“I’m sorry I tore up your sign, sir,” he said with pieces of wood in his hand.
“Sorry?” I bellowed. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Are you alright?”
Actually, there wasn’t even a scratch on his truck. The sign and its wood supports were blown to bits on impact.
Anyway, as we were picking up the last bits of my sign, I turn to the guy and extend my hand. “I don’t know if it’s a good time, but I’d sure appreciate your vote. My name is …”
He stopped me before I could get it out. “Sir, you don’t have to tell me your name. I just saw it coming toward my windshield at 55. I’ll never forget it.”
Contact Duane Sherrill at news@smithvillereview.com