"Fasten your seatbelts; it's going to be a bumpy night."

That famous line, often misquoted as “Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride,” was spoken by a past-her-prime actress with a flair for drama named Margo Channing, played by Bette Davis, in the movie “All About Eve,” released in 1950. The film was based on the 1946 short story “The Wisdom of Eve” by Mary Orr.

A red sports car blew by me on the highway. It was as if I were backing up. Seat belts save lives, but they don’t keep egos in check.

I see road signs reading “Click-it or ticket” or “Buckle up. It’s the law.” Those signs remind us to buckle our seat belts for our own good while we’re disobeying various traffic laws or hurrying along while discovering the gastrointestinal consequences of eating a dozen hot dogs while losing an eating contest.

My favorite signs are a couple of Minnesota ones: “You know it’s love when it clicks. Buckle up,” and “Duck, Duck, Buckle Up.” The latter hits home. Evidently, Minnesota is the only state where kids play "Duck, Duck, Gray Duck" instead of “Duck, Duck, Goose.”

Incredibly, 49 other states are unaware that their faulty thinking has led to a grievous misconception. I hope they come to their senses.

When I was a kid, buckle up meant to buckle your five-buckle rubber overshoes before going outside.

I grew up without seat belts. We didn’t even have seat suspenders. I was a free-range kid. The closest I came to having a seat belt was my mother’s arm. She stretched her upper limb across the passenger seat when coming to a stop sign to keep me from ramming my face against a dashboard padded in concrete.

Kids rode in the boxes of rusty pickup trucks and on the opened tailgates of rickety station wagons. Those places lacked seat belts.

Using seat belts is such a good thing that the birds remind us to use them. There are no seat belts on my push lawn mower, but the barn swallows follow me, calling out the advisement, “Click-it, click-it!”

They do that because they care.

Barn swallows are cheerful aerialists with an appetite for flying insects, and they eat them without gravy. When given a choice between a fly and a bar of Toblerone chocolate, they choose the fly every time. Swallows eat cake only on their birthdays.

The birds appreciate the food service my humble push mower provides. I call it the Lone Mower, and it’s powered by a hamster in a wheel. I named it, but the mower refuses to come when I call it. What it does is encourage insects to become airborne. The world becomes a swallow’s inflight meal. I grew up with a push lawn mower without a motor. It was a reel mower—a real reel mower. The blades were on a cylindrical reel that cut like scissors instead of having the rotary blades that are on my current cutter of grass. The swallows enjoy the sound of a lawn mower’s engine because it acts as a dinner bell.

That said, the swallows like my wife better. Why wouldn’t they? Because of a disjointed command structure, my wife is the only one who operates the riding mower, the Blade Runner. The swallows worship the Toro she rides upon.

Swallows do what they do. In the Boothill Graveyard in Tombstone, Arizona, there is an epitaph that reads: "Be what you is, cuz if you be what you ain't, then you ain't what you is."

When swallows and lawnmowers join forces, everybody wins except the flying insects. The grass is used to the process and survives without needing hospitalization. The swallows are good company. Playing follow-the-leader with a gulp of swallows is a uniquely joyful experience. A pack of raccoons, skunks or protestors supporting the right of lawn grass to grow tall could be the ones chasing me.

The helpful nagging of the swallows has caused me to consider buckling up while I push the lawn mower. I’m going to start wearing five-buckle overshoes while cutting the grass.

As I buckle that footwear, I’ll make a sound that mimics clicking.

The swallows need to hear it.

Contrary to popular belief, barn swallows do not eat barns. Other than that one outside of Scarville, Iowa.