So it got me thinking about what my passions are and is there any way we could make them a career?  But I think at that point the passion goes from being a passion to being a job that turns out like every other job you’ve had.

Furthermore what keeps you passionate and what keeps you coming back to it? One of my passions is writing, but for whatever reason, we’ll call it life, it always seems to get left on the side of the road looking for a ride back to town.  I think part of why it gets left behind is because I’m always looking for a way to make money out of it and lets face it getting into the publishing industry is hard (book publishing that is).  One of my hopes is that by keeping this somewhat up to date my passion bucket will get full again and I’ll pursue that dream.

What are your passions?

Like many others, this week, we got our census form to fill out.  My wife being the great gal that she is said that she’d fill it out.  So we were sitting on the couch watching TV and she started filling out.

“Your how old?” She asked me.

I told her how old I was.  A year less than what she thought! I think she knew she was just giving me a hard time.

And then it came to her birthday and she started crying.  See ever since I turned 30 a few years back she’s been dreading it.  I personally don’t know why, but she is.  And that was what made her cry. She had to finally put down that she’d be 30 by April!

So that is how the census made my wife cry!

————

“She mentioned your dad didn’t she?” Janice asked as Nate came out of the office.

Ignoring what she said, he grabbed his coat from the stand.  “I’ll be out on the road.  If you need me I’ll have my radio.”

Four months ago Nate’s dad had a heart attack and was forced to retire earlier than he wanted to from the police force.  Nate, who had just gotten back from one of his extended trips over seas, was voted into the police chief position.  It wasn’t something he had dreamed of doing, but as near as he could figure the city thought that a combination of what he knew from his dad and his military experience would make him a good replacement for police chief.  One hearing and one city council vote and he was police chief.

There were quite a few hurt feelings that he’d been elected to the position, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, and he let them know about it in no certain terms.  A few just couldn’t deal with it so he’d cleaned house a little bit and was busting his ass to make up for it while looking for replacements.

It didn’t take Jake long to get out of Picken’s and onto the highway leading north to the Canadian border.  Hunting season make the roads busier than normal as people when back and forth from town to their hunting camps.  Once they saw his black vehicle on the road they slowed down and waved as they passed by him.

He pulled off onto a dirt road twenty minutes later and waited for a minute and then saw a truck coming towards him.  Flicking on his lights he pulled up towards the truck and rolled down his window.

“Morning,” Chief the man in the vehicle said to him.

“Morning,” Nate replied.  “I’m looking for Thompson camp.  Know where I might find it?”

The man thought for a second.

“Not 100% sure, but I believe it’s up the road another 10 miles and then off on road 1025.”

“Thanks,” Jake said.

The road was rutted from all of the traffic on it so it took awhile for him to get to road 1025.  On road 1025 he  was only able to go a mile up it before a gate was across the road and two vehicles were parked on the side.

He parked on the side and went to the two trucks to look into them.  Nothing out of the normal.

“Base, this is Nate,” He called into the radio on his shoulder.

“Go ahead.”

“Need you to run a couple of plates for me.”

“Go ahead.”

Nate read off both plate numbers to the dispatcher and waited for a return call.

“Got ‘em,” The radio squawked.

I’ve got more of my Nate story coming up.  Just need to sit down and get it down.

——————————-

“Nate you’ve got a phone call on line one,” Janice called from outside his office.

“Thanks,” He said as he reached for the phone.

“This is Nate,” He said.

“Nate this is Darla.  We lived down the street from you and your family while you were growing up,” The little voice said.

Being in a small town just about everyone knew everyone else.  And he remembered Darla and her family.  Specifically he remembered their daughter, Eve, who was drop dead gorgeous in high school, but was a ball buster.  He’d taken his shot at her and been shut down.  Nate pondered for a moment wondering where she was.

“How are you?” He asked.

“Fine,” She said.  “Well not really.  My husband’s missing.”

“Okay.  When did you last see him?” Nate asked.

“Well he went up to elk camp last weekend and was supposed to be back yesterday.  They sometimes come in late so I didn’t think anything of it, but not this long.”

“Where’s their camp at?” Nate asked.

Darla explained that the camp was north of town, near the Canadian border, but on the south side of the river that divided the two countries.

“I’ll take a run up there and let you know what I can find,” Nate told Darla.

“Your a saint Nate.  Just like your dad.”

It was a good thing that Darla couldn’t see his face when she said that because he had a large scowl when she compared him to his dad, the previous police chief.

However on more that one occasion lately I’ve asked myself “do you read my e-mails”.  Today for instance someone asked me about something that I had explained the previous week in an e-mail.  As nicely as I could I told them that I sent it to them the previous week.  There are times, such as today, where I really wish I could have said what I wanted to, but until I’m well off or self employed I won’t be doing it.

So do you read your e-mail?

We’ve taken our taxes to this guy ever since we moved to our current location.  I couldn’t even tell you how we found him, perhaps it was a phone book or a search on the internet.  I don’t know. He does business in a house that’s un-labled and unmarked, so unless you know what your looking for you, you’d probably walk right past it. The first two years that we took our taxes there we were greeted by a rather tall buxom brunette.  This time when I dropped off the taxes I was greeted by another tall gal, but rather than buxom she’s stick thin.  Not my cup of tea, but if that’s what the tax man wants then all the more power to him.

Okay so maybe he’s not a letch, but you get my point.  He likes to have younger, good looking women around him!