Back in the day (as the kids say) I had an unusual hobby. Living in the Pacific Northwest, there are many windy mountain roads, rocky crags, tall timber, and — if you’re in the right frame of mind — whimsical road signs.
There was the fireman driving the ladder truck in his helmet.
The jersey cow signifying cattle crossings.
And of course there was falling rocks sign, that some adolescent would have put a sticker on for a local radio station, right above the word “ROCKS”.
But my favorite was the deer crossing sign.
Late at night, before dawn but well after the bars had closed and all inebriated citizens had cleared off the roads, I would go out and put googly eyes on these road signs. It tickled me to see the startled expression on the deer’s face, as if he was surprised by each approaching car. There was always the risk that the next pair of headlights could be the long arm of the law. However, I always figured that being out at that hour adding a touch of fanciful kookiness to a sign, rather than driving drunk or bashing in mailboxes, would make me immune to censure. I miss those late night missions… the last minute scramble to find a pin to unclog the super-glue, the laughing reminder to bring acetone “just in case” a finger got stuck to the sign, and cheap gas station coffee with powdered creamer. Those were good times.