Screwed

My muse and I comfortably ignored the first panic utterance of my wife - after all, it was Saturday morning; I'm easy going, a kind of laid back loving husband: me and my easel were heavy into an affair of canvass and paint.  An eardrum shattering shriek registered something was possibly amiss.  "I've got a flat!  Slow leak today - tomorrow a flat!  Get it fixed!  I'm taking your car!"  And she was out the door to hunt down the family's weekend supply of food.  It was a tug of war between me, my paint-brushes and the muse.   My wife won.

After miles of back country roads and stopping here and there trying to pry open locked garage doors I was fast concluding tire doctors in the Laurentian Mountains had all gone fishing, when I happened across the only one left behind for emergency calls.  He successfully operated on my wife's ailing tire, triumphantly removed - holding it up for me to see - the two inch screw, especially designed to f--k up my morning.

Oil 24 x 18