Helping someone move is the ultimate test of manliness

Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope.

-- Edith Wharton

I am so proud of myself.

Over the weekend a friend asked me to help him move. It's been years since anyone asked me to help with a move. Decades, really.

I had begun to think everyone thought I was too old. Too scrawny. Too risky with breakables. I didn't want to admit they might be right.

You see, in my generation nothing said manly accomplishment like getting a refrigerator up a twisting stairwell to a third-floor apartment. In the 1970s and '80s, we seemed to be doing this every six months, and real men were judged for their moving reliability.

Forget bar fights and tackle football; just tell us where you want the Curtis Mathes TV console.

And, no, we won't be using that dolly thing with the wheels and straps. It might mess up the shag carpet.

As soon as I rest up, I'll be ready to help again. Probably a few years.

SUMMER VACATION: It's the last day of June, and I want to thank all of you who keep mailing me vacation postcards. We're well on our way to our goal of getting a card from every state.

Seth Kantz , of North Augusta, is helping. He writes: "I spent my 10th birthday in Florida with my sister, who works at Disney World. Liesel, Mom and I had a great time at the Kennedy Space Center."

The Martins from Augusta send a puzzle postcard from the Petrified Forest. It came in pieces in an envelope, and I had to put it together to read the message and see the image.

Jessica and Whitney Daly send a card from Las Vegas. Sherry and Kenneth Ray , of Edgefield, send a card from New Jersey because they're always hard to come by.

The Daly family sends a card showing the Hank Aaron plaque at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. And the Oligs dropped one in the mailbox from the Luray Caverns in Virginia.

TODAY'S JOKE: Seth Benson , of Millen, offers this.

A cowboy rode into town and stopped at the saloon for a drink. Unfortunately, the locals always had the habit of picking on strangers, which he was. When he finished his drink, he found his horse had been stolen. He went back into the bar, handily flipped his gun into the air, caught it above his head without even looking and fired a shot into the ceiling.

"Which one of you sidewinders stole my horse?!" he yelled with surprising forcefulness.

No one answered. "All right, I'm gonna have another beer, and if my horse ain't back outside by the time I finish, I'm gonna do what I done in Texas! And I don't like to have to do what I done in Texas!"

Some of the locals shifted restlessly. The man, true to his word, had another beer, walked outside, and his horse had been returned to the post.

He saddled up and started to ride out of town. The bartender wandered out of the bar and asked, "Say pardner, before you go ... what happened in Texas?"

The cowboy turned back, smiled, and said, "I had to walk home."

Reach Bill Kirby at (706) 823-3344 or bill.kirby@augustachronicle.com.