Three Word Thursday: somewhat derailed.

Three Word Thursday is hosted by Quilly. I love this one, because it lets me run wild with two of my favourite things: learning cool new words and making stories.

Every Thursday, she pulls three wonderful old words from the mothballs of lexical history, and the rest of us give those words all-new stories to live in. Tales can be as long or short, sad or silly, or whatever as you like, so join in! You'll find all the details at Quilldancer.com.

This week's words are:

confabulation: conversation, discussion

pudify: cause to be ashamed

rimestock: an almanac written in runes.

Off the Rails

"I say we should just call Mr. B," Joe said. "Nobody knows that old engine better."

"He's been retired ten years," their new boss said. "You boys just haven't given it enough thought. Did anyone even read the manual?"

Dave snorted. "That old rimestock? Nothing in it applies anymore, and it wasn't much help in the first place. Besides, they stopped making parts for her in 1978, and Mr. B. had to rebuild her engine twice since then."

Joe laughed. "The last time, he used parts out of one of the motorcoaches and a Volvo truck to get her going. There might have been voodoo involved too, who knows? Everyone else had given her up for dead." He looked through the office window at the little diesel locomotive waiting on the tracks outside, her green paint shining in the afternoon sun.

"Well," the boss said, leaning back in his leather chair, "I suppose that's the alternative, isn't it? All she does for us anymore is the daily run taking paper from the mill to the newspaper building in town, and that can be done by truck."

"Fifty trucks you mean," Dave said, but the boss shrugged.

"It means losing the paper account of course, be we could just concentrate on the---"

"It means losing the Santa run too," Joe said, "and losing it too late in the year for any alternative plans." He shook his head. "I won't be the one to call the children's hospital and tell them their only annual fundraiser isn't going ahead because seven professional mechanics can't get an engine going---it'd be too pudifying."

The boss sat forward again and leaned his elbows on the table, resisting the urge to ask what the hell pudifying meant. No matter—he had a few big words of his own. There they were, right there on his word-a-day calendar on the desk. He scanned the word for November 12th and made his decision.

"Enough of this ...confabulation, boys," he said, leaning back in his chair again. "If you all don't mind admitting your failures, well, I don't mind if you want to call your old friend Mr. B. back again for a day. Just don't raid any of my motorcoaches for parts this time, y'hear?"

---

Ok, that's not really a story is it? It's more a vignette or a scene, but Thursday snuck up on me too quickly this week and I haven't had time to do a proper one.

My other excuse is that my head is full of locomotives and engine parts and the fragrance of diesel and motor oil: all memories of life with my Dad, who would have been 93 years old today: if only! The above scene is completely fictional but it's based on a true story. My mother's phone rang ten years after Dad died, from someone desperate for help fixing that old locomotive he used to care for. She burst into tears then, though she loved to tell about it afterwards. Nobody else could fix the old locomotive again, bless her big diesel heart, and she was retired to the local railroad museum, where they put her outside and let all her shining chrome stairs and rails and bits go rusty. My father would never have allowed that.

His cars looked and ran like new even when they were twenty years old; he was able to diagnose engine problems just hearing a car pull in the driveway; he loved tinkering with motors and engines of all kinds and was a mechanical genius. At his funeral a young mechanic he'd mentored hugged me and offered, "God must have needed a good mechanic 'cause he called home the best." I still laugh at that line (sooo...God drives a car... and can't fix it??). It's a wonderful memory, a small light that shone in the darkness of a terrible time.

They say the pain of losing someone gets better in time. I say that's some big BS.

This weekend I'm going to celebrate his birthday by going out to buy a brand new 00-scale model train set complete with tracks, locomotive, rolling stock, the whole works, as a Christmas present for my son who is every inch the motorhead and locomotive-lover my Dad was (also the joy of my life). I can't wait to tell him all the old train stories my Dad told me, while we set it all up on Christmas Day. I hope I can find a locomotive that's green.

Anyway.

Happy Birthday Daddy.

My Dad as he was usually photographed: behind the wheel of his car.

That's his father standing, circa 1958. Dig those white-walls: how I'd love to have that car now!