RIP, George Jones.
Once, when I had been drunk for several days, [then-wife] Shirley decided she would make it physically impossible for me to buy liquor. I lived about 8 miles from Beaumont and the nearest liquor store. She knew I wouldn’t walk that far to get booze, so she hid the keys to every car we owned and left. But she forgot about the lawn mower.
I can vaguely remember my anger at not being able to find keys to anything that moved and looking longingly out a window at a light that shone over our property. There, gleaming in the glow, was that 10-horsepower rotary engine under a seat. A key glistening in the ignition.
I imagine the top speed for that old mower was five miles per hour. It might have taken an hour and a half or more for me to get to the liquor store, but get there I did.
Best story ever. You can almost smell the whiskey breath. RIP, George.