I Couldn’t Hear if it went in Park.

A few days ago, a lady who shall remain forever nameless, came to call and pulled her little old lady white car where she could take out Bud’s Jeep and the camping trailer, if she couldn’t make up her mind which was best. I suspect she got a phone call as she pulled up to park, since she dawdled in her car for a a while before getting out. Buzzy went wild, desperate to get out and welcome her, but finally forgot as she took her time. I went back to what I was doing, knowing she’d eventually be at one of the doors. Since Bud was in the shop, I thought she might go out to speak to him first.

After about ten minutes, I heard an impact and a scrunch. “Oh no!” Running out, I saw she’d rolled into the camper, but by now had backed up.

“Oh my gosh, when I pulled in, I thought I’d put the car is n park, but I guess I hadn’t. I know it’s because I am having trouble with my ears and couldn’t hear if it clicked in park!”

As we looked for damage, I didn’t mention I never listened to see if my car went into park.
The only obvious damage, was a tiny dent she didn’t mention.

“If they’re’ any damage, I’ll pay for it. She repeated this twice, just st because she was rattled.”

“I don’t see a thing,” I assured her.

Bud came sprinting up just then. “What happened? Did somebody run into my camper?”

Before Mother (uh oh, I wasn’t going to tell) could launch the into her long explanation and excuses, I jumped in, praying Bud would just look and hush. Mother’s obsessive-compulsive explanation followed by endless apologies and self-recriminations are hard to bear. We seriously downplay problems to save ourselves.

He has suffered through this before. He’s a smart guy. “I don’t see a thing.” He declined coffee and went back to his shop.

While I fixed coffee, Mother cranked up, “Bhah,blah,blah, sure thought it was in park. Blah, blah, blah, now if anything’ wrong, I insist on paying. Blah, blah, blah, natter, natter, natter.” More reassurance given, but not nearly enough to satisfy her.

Finally, I had to redirect her. “Mother, there is no damage and nobody’s mad. Now, we have to change the subject.”

She finally let me off the hook. When Mother messes something up, she is not satisfied till the injured party convinces her the accident was the best thing that ever happened to them.

After she left, Bud and I went out to inspect. The damage was minor. I thanked him for keeping his cool.

“Yeah, well. I was about to get me a piece of cardboard and make a sign so I could wave it at cars going down the street. “Come bust my camper in the ass!”

What a guy!


Road Rage and Big-Eared Old Fornicators

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'I certainly don't get tailgated anymore!'

‘I certainly don’t get tailgated anymore!’

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Bud likes to road grouch.  I don’t.  I figure people mostly do the best they can, so I just watch out for them.  Bud likes to hurl useless epithets like “crazy old woman of some sort” and “big-eared old fornicator” at men.  The insults are mostly wasted on me, but I have pointed out the high improbability of big-eared old guys meriting the compliment of fornicator, but I guess he is just being generous. Even so, it doesn’t sound fair. Why is crazy or fornicator gender-specific? I do kind of take exception to the limitations on ladies.  I guess he isn’t into equal opportunity.

Maniac in the Wilderness

Bill 2Bill ever survived my mother’s abuse.  When he was only a tiny lad of eighteen, he was six feet four inches tall. I think the fact that she wasn’t even acquainted with five feet gave him a feeling of superiority.  While I won’t say he had a smart mouth, I will allow it was extremely well-educated.  I am sure they only reason my mother hadn’t already killed him was because she hated to go to prison and leave her younger daughters motherless.  It certainly wasn’t because the thought hadn’t crossed her mind at least a thousand times a day since puberty attacked him and her by proxy.

Anyway, on occasion, they had to travel places alone together.  It was a misery to them both.  It didn’t help that the car was a tiny Volkswagon Beetle.  It’s always worth a person’s time to stop and watch a huge guy unfold himself and crawl out of a Beetle, a pleasure Bill dreaded providing mirthful onlookers.  It didn’t improve his mood on arrival, a mood already blackened with inevitable conflict he’d shared with Mother.

At any rate, on this particular day, they started home with Bill driving.  According to Mother, he was driving like a maniac: driving too fast, following too closely, cutting people off.  I have no doubt this was true.  It was his typical manner.  She insisted he slow down.  He crept along at ten miles an hour, hoping that was slow enough to please her.  She’d finally had enough, telling him to pull over.  She’d drive.  He critiqued her driving as soon as she started.  “Speed up!  Don’t ride the clutch! Change Gears!”

Finally, she’d had enough.  She pulled over.  “Get out!”  Delighted, he hopped out, thinking she’d come to her senses and wanted him to drive.  She drove off and left him standing on a country road, thirty miles from home.  She enjoyed the rest of the peaceful drive.  At  home, Daddy wanted to know where Bill was.  “I left him somewhere close to Bossier City.”

Daddy was shocked she’d left the little fellow all alone in the wilderness.  “Well, You’d better go get him!  It’ll be dark soon!”

“You go get him if you want to!  I don’t care if he never gets home!”

Daddy was a lot better at giving orders than taking them, but he jumped in his truck to rescue his precious son and heir.  Billy met him at the end of the driveway, brought home by a Good Samaritan.  He’d somehow survived his abandonment but I think he still drives like a maniac.  I don’t think he and Mother voluntarily ride together till today

See attached picture if you care to put out APB on either