One Queer Turn

By wisewebwoman of The Other Side of Sixty

Well, my dear, sometimes you live long enough to see life working out fair. And life is fair, you know, very fair. You see me now, I’m ninety-three, I can talk with some authority about such things.

I was only twelve when I went to the convent and spoke to Mother Perpetua; she was the head of all the Presentation Sisters in Milltown then. I knew I had the vocation. I just wanted to make sure they knew about it too and would reserve a space for me. I was fierce innocent then. A space, imagine!

She kept me standing in her big office with the statue of Our Lady in the corner smiling down at me and the bleeding Sacred Heart with his hurt-looking face behind her on the wall as I asked about the space.

“Oh no, you unfortunate girl,” Mother Perpetua said, her hands folded in front of her on her shiny desk, “Sure, we could never take you!”

I should fill you in a bit now on my background. Did I tell you about my big sister, Lily? Well, my dear, three years before that, Lily had run off with the young Protestant minister of the town. Eloped up to Belfast with him she did. All the way on the train from Milltown in County Cork to Belfast in the County Armagh. Imagine! And of course they married outside the faith.

So let me get back to Mother Perpetua, sitting there, her big, glarey frown withering me up.

“Your sister,” she said to me, “will be confined to the fires of hell for all eternity for what she did. And you come from the family that raised her to do this despicable and sinful act. You are tainted, Frances Murphy, tainted with her sin, and we can’t ever accept you into our holy order of the Presentation Sisters.”

Well, my dear, I thought my head would burst open with all the water locked inside it. I had dreamed of becoming a nun since I was four. I didn’t know what to do with my broken hope so I turned around and ran out the door and down the corridor and into the toilet and between the throwing up and the overflowing tears I was a terrible mess.

And I never told a soul. It was too humiliating and Mammy and Daddy would have been mortified. For this would be on top of the pain of Lily who Mammy had a wake for after she ran away and declared her dead to the family for ever. Daddy never did smile again after that.

But I got over it. I got myself a job as nanny to the local gentry. And they treated me so decent, like one of the family. I even went all over the continent with them. I saw all there was to see with them and their three lovely children. They gave me a small pension too when I was done and later on there was a little remembrance in Sir Bentley’s will.

And that’s when life took one queer turn. I was sixty and retired when Mother Sebastian knocked on my door. Mother Perpetua was long dead by then and Mother Sebastian was her successor.

“Miss Murphy,” she says to me sipping on her tea here in this parlour, “I hear you are reliable and good with the figures and sums.”

“I am,” says I, blushing at the compliment.

“Well,” says she, “We have no one in the convent like that anymore since Sister Caspian passed on. And we are in a bit of a fix. We need someone to take care of the bookkeeping and the office work and arrange the banking. Someone confidential. Someone we can trust.”

I stayed quiet. This was no time to get on my high horse by thinking of myself in that toilet way back then, coughing up bile all over my clean uniform.

“We’d pay you, of course,” she went on. “The going rate. To take care of us all.”

Me! - taking care of them! And a bit of extra money too! I’d have enough to visit Lily a few times a year. I’d never been to the North of Ireland. And now thanks to the nuns I would be able to.

And so I did - for many, many years.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

A Full Circle

By Johna Ferguson

Did you ever reach that wonderful point when you could actually have a car of your own? My husband always had company cars so I got along as best I could, grocery shopping when he was home on week-ends. But various appointments always had to be made so I could catch a bus with one our three boys and buses weren’t always convenient; my neighbors helped out many times.

Finally, when we could afford a car for me in 1968, I bought a VW bug. It was wonderful to have wheels. I could drive the boys to lessons and whatever came up.

By then the two older boys were into skiing. First they rode the ski buses up, but eventually I let the oldest drive my car until once he slid and they landed in a big snow bank. The two weren’t hurt, thankfully, but the top of the front hood and fenders got all bent out of shape.

The insurance paid for it, but I decided to get a heavier car so I bought a fastback Mustang. I kept that car for two years and then traded it in on something special, a classic pink ’56 porthole hard top/convertible T-Bird. I loved that car until our oldest somehow took out the oil pan.

Parts were difficult to get and it never seemed to run right after that, so I sold it and bought a British racing green TR6. I’d gotten used to convertibles so why not again. I also loved that zippy car, but one weekend our middle son totaled it completely. Thankfully he was not hurt.

The insurance only paid part so I made him pay back the rest over time. Then what to buy? Those had all been used cars so I bought a brand new white Audi, four-door. I thought it might be so boring no one would want to drive it, but then I was hit broadside and it was totaled. Luckily I walked away from the accident; I was saved from injury as I had my seat belt on.

I was a little leery of cars after that, so I shopped for the safest one and bought a new BMWii. I hated that car; it really was a lemon, so I traded it in on a used ’56 classic 354 red Porsche. After all, the boys had all left home by then. It was my most beloved car, but then I took a permanent job in China in 1985, so left the car for my family to sell.

I found though, when I came home on vacation breaks I needed a car, so I bought a red Mazda Miata convertible/hard top. It was fun and snappy and a new image for a just divorced woman. But then I married again and stayed in China so my sons sold that car.

After living in China with my husband for several years, we decided to come to Seattle to live, so I bought a used gray, Honda civic, four-door. It was okay as it was 5-speed and created a good image of the little old lady I was becoming. But after two heart surgeries, the doctor suggested no driving.

I still have my license and occasionally drive my son’s SUV, but the bus system in Seattle can’t be beat so now, just like before when I was first married, I’m back to busing. Actually you meet some very interesting people on the bus.

Even if you drive, some day you should try riding a bus. Not only is it much cheaper, but also good for the environment. And no, I’m not car crazy;,I just liked changes - makes life more interesting.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Flying with Egrets

By Jeanne Waite Follett

Late each afternoon, as the earth turns and brings respite from the blue-white heat of day, the egrets cease their daily pursuits and take to the wing. A band of lemon yellow suffuses the horizon as dozens, nay, tens of dozens, of slender white birds fly in waves over the casas and condos, haciendas and houses of Mazatlan, Mexico.

Above the small convenience stores called “super markets,” past the Montana papeleria that sells single sheets of paper or single Band-Aids, still in business despite the behemoth office supply store a half block away around the corner, over the vendor with his two-wheeled cart of tejuinos and large bottles of hot sauce, the egrets fly west into the setting sun.

Drafting off each other in “vee” formations, they fly between the Norfolk pines and the coconut palms, all in the same direction, hurrying before deep lilac and mauve push tangerine to the horizon and chase darkening lemon in pursuit of the vanishing sun.

They fly silently, leading with long beaks and trailing equally long legs, their long tapered wings carrying them swiftly to a nighttime destination known only to them.

I sit in the courtyard with the residents and guests at Burgos condos and watch the daily migration. Often my first glimpse of the birds is a reflection in the shaded windows of the complex. I look up and see them flying low over the two-story buildings.

When I first saw them and learned they were egrets, I wondered what they did with their long necks while in flight. Each evening I watched them, looking for the necks. Then, finally, I saw a fleet at a propitious angle, and could discern those necks folded back on themselves into a snowy white “ess.”

No one in this group knows where the egrets go at night. I considered various options to learn the secret whereabouts of their evening sanctuary. I pondered how to follow the flock before the indigo blanket of nightfall covers the land.

The birds fly too low and too swiftly to track. They abide by their own compasses and do not follow the streets of cobblestones, coarse pavers and yellow-striped asphalt that delineate pathways for earthbound men.

I spent long minutes at Starbucks while Google Chrome downloaded Google Earth. Perhaps an aerial view, a “bird’s eye” view, will reveal some water sanctuary of which I am not aware. Google Earth showed me man-made canals for the exclusive use of palatial haciendas with private boats and beyond that, the great and ever-rolling Pacific Ocean.

Then I explored closer to home: why do I want to know? Surely by the time the birds arrive there, wherever “there” is, the light would be too dark to photograph what must be a mind-boggling number of sleek white birds standing upright, long graceful necks posting their whereabouts.

And then I decided I don’t need to know, don’t want to know.

All we creatures, all the creatures of the earth, need our private sanctuaries, the places we go to rest, regroup, recover and recharge. Like the egrets flying to their place of refuge, we all need that secret destination, even if - perhaps especially if - it’s only a quiet place in our minds.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Plastic

By Lyn Burnstine of The Lynamber Times

I threw out plastic containers last night, an entire bag of them. It is so hard for me to do. I love every one of those little buggers. Some had no lids, some had lids that had warped so they didn't fit, some were from Tupperware parties fifty-plus years ago. I do this from time to time, but this was the grandmother of all plastic purges.

If I weren’t such a committed recycler, it would be easier for me but once I get them all sparkly clean, it’s too easy to say, “Oh, I think I’ll just keep this one,” forgetting that my freezer is already full of those kinds of yogurt, cottage cheese and margarine tubs. They will all eventually get emptied and re-enter the decision process – to toss or keep.

I spent many years refusing to buy plastic bags of any size. My aides looked askance at me when I told them to use the plastic grocery bags for garbage. I relented somewhat. I now buy sandwich bags and quart-sized food bags occasionally at the dollar store, but never garbage bags. And yes, I do wash and re-use them if they are not sticky or greasy.

My mother left drawers full of recycled plastic bags, pieces of string and bag twist-ties for us to throw out when she died. I’m not quite that bad. But now, my lifelong patterns of frugality and recycling are becoming popular – the “in” thing – as well they must be if we are going to save our planet.

I was green before green was cool! Maybe one quart-sized yogurt container won’t make a difference, but one every two weeks for twenty years just might. I have to remember, though, that they don’t all need to be in MY cupboard!

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

The Honeymooners

By Dani Ferguson of The Musings of a Middle Aged Woman

I know the world has changed and that some of the moral lessons of my youth are now antiquated, but I believe that a bit of the mystery and allure was lost with the sexual revolution.

When I was a young girl, we had clearly defined rules. There were “good” girls and there were “not so good” girls. Most girls, myself included, strove to be one of the “good” girls. Abstinence wasn’t taught, it was expected and had it not been for this strict value system passed on to me by my mother, I wouldn’t have this tale to tell now.

In 1969, I married my college sweetheart at the ripe old age of twenty. We had dated for a little over a year when we decided we were ready to walk down the aisle. I realize now that decision was motivated more by hormones than maturity. We didn’t have a nickel to our name but we were young and in love and feeling invincible. So after a small ceremony and a cake and punch reception we were off to explore the bonds of holy matrimony.

Now being one of those so-called “good” girls, I was more than a little nervous about THE wedding night. Since we were only going to Oklahoma City, a brief 22 miles from where our wedding took place, we were at our motel in no time. We settled in and my new husband immediately put the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on the door.

He decided he would take a shower before retiring and left me sitting on the bed wondering if I should make a run for it or just stay and fulfill my “wifely” duties. After a few minutes, my young husband began calling to me from the shower, “Oh Dani, come take a shower with me,” he called.

All the blood drained from my head. I had no idea what to do next. I had never seen a naked man in my life nor had I ever been seen naked. He continued to call out, “The water is warm, come take a shower with me.”

I sat on the bed for what seemed like an hour trying to figure out what to do. I thought, I’m married now, I have to do it, I promised to Obey!

Suddenly I had an idea! I opened my suitcase and removed my bathing suit. I put on the suit and headed for the shower. Then I remembered the “haven’t seen a naked man” part and decided at the last minute to flip off the light in the bathroom. The bathroom was pitch black.

I took about two steps, tripped over the toilet, grabbed for the shower curtain pulling it down with me as my chin struck the tub. Not knowing what the heck was going on, my husband reached for me and in the process felt my bathing attire. He burst into laughter while the shower continued to spray water all over the bathroom.

He laughed so hard he couldn’t keep his own balance as he sloshed through the water to flip on the light. There I was, the new bride, sitting on the bathroom floor, in my bathing suit, with a two-inch gash in my chin.

We spent the remainder of our first night as a married couple in the emergency room getting ten stitches in my chin. I begged my husband not to tell the doctor the circumstances surrounding my need for medical attention, but he couldn’t resist. The doctor gave me a Valium, my new husband the bill and wished him the best of luck!

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Making Magic

By Brian McGovern aka Hijinx the Magician

Doing magic is all I ever wanted to do since I was a kid. I remember being mystified and astonished by a magician when I was just a little boy growing up in Brooklyn, New York. I knew I wanted to be a magician. I pictured myself traveling around the world floating, sawing and vanishing beautiful ladies, producing tigers and looking spiffy in black tie and tails.

I started out working at a magic shop and the owner booked me to do a show at a birthday party. Besides being terrified, I had no act. The shop’s owner sold me the tricks to perform. That first show wasn’t exactly profitable, but it was a start.

Then life happened. I got married, had kids and got a job. I kept performing on the side but kept dreaming of the day when I could be a full time pro.

Now that my kids are grown, I’ve given up the nine to five in order to follow that dream. I had no idea what I was in for. Nowadays, I’m running all over New York City and Long Island doing magic at every imaginable spot.

Birthday parties for kids, for adults and even teenagers. Teens are a tough audience but once you win them over, they’re more enthusiastic than any other crowd. They really react.

From parties on yachts for millionaires to birthday parties in small Bronx apartments, I see it all. I’m invited into people’s homes to entertain the people they love with the art form I love.

Sleight of hand and illusion are things of beauty. Like a painter who only creates the illusion of a woman with paint and canvas, a magician creates illusions with our senses. When I perform magic and I hear a gasp of disbelief, I’m happy. Not that I tricked somebody, but that I gave them the gift of wonder.

“We are perishing for lack of wonder, not for want of wonders,” is a quote from G. K. Chesterton I really enjoy. I see the art of magic not as tricks but as a source of astonishment.

Sure, we use “tricks,” but not like a liar or a con-man. Just like a movie producer uses “tricks” to make us believe a man can fly, it is a means to an end.

Maybe I’m getting too old for this? I wonder that sometimes as I haul my bag of tricks to the car for another crazy day of hocus-pocus. But when I see that look of wonder in the faces of my audiences, suddenly I feel that sense of wonder too and I’m transported back to that day I saw my first magic trick, and I feel like a kid again.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

A Mind Gone Astray

By Johna Ferguson

Dickie was a child of the new age in China; in other words he was overweight and very spoiled. With the one-child policy in effect, an only child became a little king or queen in their families. They could now eat better foods, lots of meat and sweets things which added fat to their bodies, things never available during the Cultural Revolution.

Dickie’s mother had heard about me, an American teacher, through the grapevine which was more effective than even the old telephone party lines had been. She wanted me to tutor her child in spoken English. He was in sixth grade then and had studied English in school for three years, but had learned absolutely nothing since he didn’t think it was important.

To him drawing pictures of guns, rockets and tanks was more interesting. He was also a prodigious reader, in Chinese of course, about the ancient history of his country.

But he had one bad habit; he loved to play computer games. At that time, 1988, few families had computers in their homes so on many street corners were computer coffee shops where for so much money you could play games for an hour. Children were not allowed in these places, meaning anyone not having graduated from high school, but the owners got around that rule. Usually they had a curtain at the back and behind it were computers set up with games for young students.

Dickie became hooked on the games. In fact, he rode his bike there straight from school and played until he had to be home for supper. Of course these games cost money and he didn’t have a job nor even get an allowance. He borrowed from friends until that ran thin, and then started raiding his mother’s purse. There were no checks or bank cards at that time in China, you just used cash. Therefore a mother might have lots of money stashed in her purse at one time, and probably wouldn’t miss a few bills from time to time.

But as Dickie’s grades fell lower and lowe,r the mother started looking into where her son was after school. Almost all women work in China, so Dickie was to go home from school and study, but at that time there were no cell phones and often not land lines so she couldn’t check on him.

One day she came home early and he wasn’t there, so she went down to the corner computer shop. There parked besides the building was his bike. She was furious and went in and bodily dragged him out.

That incident made her more aware of what was happening almost daily. She started counting her cash and discovered missing bills at least weekly. She asked me if I had any suggestions, but I didn’t want to become involved in family affairs.

She finally took the bull by the horns. She told Dickie if she found him playing games again she would torture him. All this floated above his head like clouds in the sky, but she was serious. When she found him next time, she brought him home and began her treatment. She got the pin cushion and jabbed several pins under his finger nails. He was so stoical he never even let out a whimper.

Satisfied with her work, she pulled the pins out and told him next time there would be more pins, so he’d better straighten up.

But Dickie, being Dickie, refused to give up his love of games in spite of his failing grades at school. Finally the school told his mother they could no longer keep him. He would have to transfer to a private school.

Luckily she found a school to accept him, but of course she had to pay an enormous sum to get him in. But he still did poorly. The new school suggested he go to the medical university and be tested, maybe he had a brain abnormality or something. Because I was teaching at that university she asked me for help.

I lined up a psychiatrist, but first that doctor wanted some background information on the family not only from the mother and father and Dickie, but also from me. These were to be private interviews so I had no idea what the family members might say, but I tried to be reasonable in my opinions. I had first asked Dickie how he felt about all these tests and he told me if I stood by his side, he'd be okay.

The doctors tested Dickie’s IQ which way above average; checked if he had dyslexia which was a positive no; checked to see if he was bipolar, also a no. She gave him an array of tests and all of them showed that Dickie was brilliant, so probably bored in school. He needed an accelerated program but few were available.

His mother decided to see if he could skip the rest of his primary school and go straight into middle school, meaning the ninth through the 12th grades. The school acquiesced and Dickie became another personality entirely. He started being interested in music, in how to change sounds through the keyboard. He even stopped spending time at the computer outlets and concentrated on preparing for high school exams for entering college, always such a challenge for students as there are so few openings.

When I last visited Beijing, Dickie was enrolled in college studying music theory and conducting. He’d lost weight, joined in sports and had a really happy disposition. But, I thought, how many other students are lost between the cracks because they have no one who believes in them?

I’m proud of Dickie and know that he and I have formed a strong bond that will last a long time. He trusts me to help him out of troubles, and I will hopefully always be there to help him.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Tommy's Timber

By Herchel Newman aka Herm

After three scores of living, many events lose their grip on the memory cells. Childhood play days run together and you may not recall losing your first baby tooth. Something may shake your mind to recall some events, but others are scorched there; such as the mind-shaking event I had with Tommy Hickman.

I was in the third grade, so the year must have been 1954. We lived about six blocks from Second Avenue Elementary School. Rain or shine, hot or cold, we walked Summit Avenue to school, home for lunch and back. It was inevitable that mischief would trip us up now and then.

Tommy sometimes walked with the kids who used High Street which was busier, but just as often he walked with us up and down Summit Avenue. Don't know where he actually lived.

In ‘54 he would have been known as a rascal. I don’t know if he was big for his age or if he’d been left back a year. I’m sure he must have had a change of clothes, but I only remember him wearing brown bibbed corduroys. He had unbrushed crooked teeth and his voice had a hoarse quality to it. His hair was never combed or brushed, and I think he must have thought water was just for drinking.

Tommy, had a lot of energy, even for a kid. Always jumping around, laughing and telling some sort of tale. I liked him, but there was one thing he did that irritated me. He couldn’t talk to you unless he was touching you. Hand on your shoulder, arm around your neck, poking you in the side, patting on your head; he was an irritant.

At the corner of Second and Summit was a small used car lot. All the cars were black or gray. A little old man stood out there oftentimes as we waited to cross the street. At least he looked old to us kids. He was a stumpy character with oversized clothes. His right eyelid was permanently closed and he was always singing some song with chorus lyrics of “Long long ago, Long long ago.”

I tried to be on the side of the kids where Tommy wasn't, but this day it didn't work out. Tommy was his usual self with all his antics. He was talking about nothing, but loved to hear himself. Just as I feared, he started joking and jostling me. After a bit I just couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed his hand and shoved it away from me. "Will you get your hands off me!?" I gave him my best glare. Like I said, Tommy was bigger than any of us, so no one had ever done anything like that before.

All heads turned in unison. It seemed to be the audience he was after. He said in a singsong tone, "Oh, you act like you wanna fight me!" The stumpy little man behind him turned and began walking away, his voice fading - Long long ago, long long ago...

Tommy, stood tall and began ranting. He wasn’t much looking at me, so I knew it was for everyone’s benefit and amusement. "I’m somebody you don’t want to mess with because I might get angry. When I get mad and angry I might have to bring out my timber."

By this time the light had changed and some of the kids had begun to cross the street, yet looking back over their shoulders. Tommy had mesmerized them. Losing his audience, I guess he figured he’d better move his act along. Mesmerized myself, I turned back to listening to his oration and watching his antics which were picking up speed.

"Oh oh! I feel myself getting mad. He drew his arms in tightly to his chest and began to turn around like a turbine engine starting up. Around he went faster and faster. The faster he went the dizzier I got.

He started to growl like a mad dog. I thought, 'What in the world is he doing?!' Suddenly he started to yell at the top of his lungs. We thought he had gone crazy. "Watch out, here comes my timber." He stuck his right arm out rigid like a board and screamed, "Timber!"

I saw it coming but was too entranced to move. Tommy’s fist hit me on the left side of my head and I toppled over like a lumberjack had just chopped me down. It was all so quick it took me a while to sort it out. I didn’t even have time to cry.

When I looked up Tommy was standing over me. I couldn’t make out the ribs of his corduroys or the lines between his crooked teeth. He was swaying back and forth in slow motion, but I heard him say, "I told you to look out for my timber."

Everything came back into focus when I heard a horn blow and tires screeching. Tommy, had run off across the street against the light and almost got hit.

There was no follow-up trouble. I mean there was no safety patrol kid to make a report to the principal. I didn’t tell my big brother and certainly not my parents. The following days filled themselves with other more up to date stuff for kids to talk about.

I wonder what ever became of Tommy Hickman. I think good thoughts about him and hope life came around and picked him up, because I’m sure there were bigger timbers out there than Tommy’s.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

A Pet Peeve

By Clarence Bowles of Southern Roomers

At the risk of sounding like the infamous Mr. Rooney on 60 Minutes, I'll begin with one of his openings, "Have you ever noticed" how most sub-divisions have cars parked on at least one side of their already too-narrow streets, and on both sides, where legally permitted?

Well, I have, and it got me to wondering how those people can afford both a house payment and payments on three or four cars. After a closer look, I came to find that they can't.

The truth of the matter is that most families own no more than two; it’s just that no one parks in their garages. Why? You may ask. Simply because their garages are so full of junk they have gathered over the years and can't bear the thought of parting with, there just isn't any room for a car.

I'm sorry, but I just don't understand. They must have filled the garage up to the ceiling on the first day they moved in, or else they would be aware of the benefits derived from using it as was originally intended.

No frost, ice or snow to clear away while you freeze your nubs off, no direct hits by low flying elephant birds, no dust coating stirred up by passing traffic, no soap or eggs on Cabbage Night and your aerial might last as long as you own your car, not to mention incidental damage to finish or structural integrity by errant DUI kamikaze pilots making their way home on Friday or Saturday night.

There is just too much to be gained by parking in the garage instead of the driveway or the street.

In 1987, I had a home built and if it were not for my inexperience at being a home owner, and not having enough time to think out all my choices, I would have made that single car garage a two-and-a-half car garage and the driveway would cover most of the frontage on the property.

How could I have known that my teenage daughter would grow up, have her own car and lay claim to the driveway as her parking place? I am now contemplating a side apron, slab of concrete extending down the side of the present garage with a carport roof. I'm sure it would be easier than musical chairs with her car and mine.

I had a dream! A place where I need not be concerned with the sun fading the inside of the car, cool seats to sit upon, no matter how blazing the sun was, a place where I could wash my car at my leisure and the hose would reach without linking up two or more 50 foot pieces, dropping the water pressure to a mere trickle.

I have all that now just because I have a very large crawl space under the house and the attic area over the garage is well supported, roomy and easily accessed. I even thought far enough ahead to have the garage built three feet longer than standard so I could add a work bench and space to store a lawnmower and yard tools.

This year, during the heavy snowfall, I realized an additional plus to a cleaned-out garage: during snow emergencies, I wasn't required to dig out my car from the snow plows initial pass down the middle of the street and put it in the driveway so they could plow from curb to curb as my poor saughter did after a threat of towing by the local police.

So come on folks! Clean out those garages and find out what the good side of life is all about. I'll bet you will find that you really can survive without those family heirlooms cluttering up the place and drivers passing through your neighborhood will no longer need to run the maze, in and out to pass an approaching car.

P.S. "Garage Sale" is not an ad for someone wanting to get rid of their garage; it actually means getting rid of all that unneeded junk although there are plenty of people who could use one or more besides the one they presently cannot park in.

What's Up, Doc?

By Dani Ferguson of The Musings of a Middle Aged Woman

You know how there are things in everyone’s past that they aren’t particularly proud of or wish to admit. There are those parenting moments for instance when we didn’t necessarily use our best judgment. Well, one of my less than stellar moments as a parent occurred when my girls were four years old.

When my children were young they were not good little travelers like some children who are instantly lulled to sleep by the purring of a car engine. Oh no, my children never slept in the car, not even as babies.

Due to this fact, it goes without saying I wasn’t that thrilled when my husband decided he wanted to take a family trip from Oklahoma to California with our preschool age twin daughters. I began the trip with the greatest intention of remaining optimistic but we had hardly left the driveway when I realized my optimism was in vain.

We had barely reached the end of the block before the fighting began. Twin one snatched something away from twin two and twin two, being unwilling to tolerate such a blatant disrespect of personal space and property, retaliated by biting twin one on the arm like a starving wolf cub. As soon as twin one became of aware of the blood drawn by twin two she began to scream at a decibel rate equivalent to the sound of a jet leaving the tarmac.

At this point, all I could think about was the 1,342.46 miles of road trip ahead. By the time we reached Amarillo, Texas, a mere 286 miles from our house, I had begun the downward descent into a catatonic state. My husband, not wanting to face the prospect of raising two little girls on his own, made an executive decision to abandon the Magic Kingdom in favor of a shorter route to Arlington, Texas and the Six Flags Over Texas theme park.

As he exited Interstate 40 and turned south, I looked at him with more adoration and love than I had shown on our wedding night. Using Pig Latin to communicate we concocted the scheme to pass off Six Flags as Disneyland seeing as how our two passengers couldn’t read anyway.

In defense of our plot I fully intended to tell them the truth when they had children of their own and after they had traveled say 500 miles to visit Grandma at Christmas time.

Later that evening, we arrived in Arlington, a trip that would have taken less than four hours from our home without the detour through Amarillo but hey, that’s water-under-the- bridge. Since the girls didn’t know California from Texas, oak trees from palm trees, the disparagement in travel time didn’t raise any suspicions.

We checked into our motel to get a good night’s sleep before our trip to the “Magic Kingdom” the following day. I hadn’t been asleep three hours when I was startled into consciousness by the sound of gagging from the next bed. I barely opened my eyes before twin one began throwing up all over the bed immediately followed by the convulsive heaving of twin two.

Holding back my own urge to expel the contents of my stomach, I managed to get trashcans for all and cold rags on necks. By now I figured the “Magic Kingdom” wasn’t going to be on our itinerary but I didn’t count on the one-track mind of a four-year-old times two. It was apparent that if we didn’t go we were going to witness a full-blown fit that would make Super Nanny run for the hills.

So, bright and early armed with ice buckets stolen, I mean borrowed, from the motel and wet rags we ventured toward “Mickey’s Magic Kingdom.” Fortunately, the girls didn’t get sick again but we had to battle temperatures I’m sure were not being experienced in Anaheim. Texas in July is about 110 in the shade.

We stood in lines for rides with water misters spraying overhead only to have the water evaporate long before it hit our scorched and searing flesh. The girls kept asking to see Mickey Mouse and Snow White and their father’s creative answer was to tell them Mickey was in jail for DUI (my husband was a police officer) and that Snow White was on an extended vacation in Hawaii.

Fortunately there were a few Looney Tunes characters skulking about so that seemed to satisfy the kids. Nothing amuses a child like a giant rabbit gnawing a carrot yelling, “What’s up, doc?” while being chased by a gun-waving pig.

The girls requested toy swords at the souvenir stand and on our way to the parking lot we had them pose in front of the Six Flags sign. It had a picture of Bugs Bunny waving a sword over his head so we thought it would be cute to get a picture of our own sword-waving children. The shot was snapped and our vacation to the Magic Kingdom came to an end.

Long after the trip was a faint memory and my children had been in school for a couple of years, they happened upon our vacation snapshot of them in front of the “Disneyland” sign. I heard an enormous wail from the other room and was immediately confronted by two enraged second graders.

Who’s idea had it been to teach them to read?

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