Story Time

Each new day in our lives begins on a fresh clean piece of white paper, a new tale waiting to be told.

HIGHWAYS AND HIPPIES: A Sequel to “30 Years and Counting” July 30, 2010

Filed under: STORY — Marilyn Denny Thomas @ 11:49 am

Have you ever wondered what happened to the hippies of the sixties? Not the ones in the news who committed crimes or acts of terrorism throughout the last few decades but the thousands who haven’t shown up in about forty years? As RT and I sped across the great plains on Interstate 70, we had no idea we were going to discover the answer to that compelling mystery.

We did find a few old hippies browsing around eastern Colorado but none to speak of until we landed in the absolutely delightful town of Boulder. I was beside myself. Famous restaurants and shops of all kinds surrounded quaint brick streets where artists of all shapes and sizes shared their wares with the general public. Even jugglers and clowns and other non-recognizable entertainers performed all up and down the shady avenue.

Whiffs of culinary delights from around the world teased us, luring us into a wonderful corner restaurant for dinner, but not before we began to notice that we had made the great discovery. Most all the old hippies (our age, actually) who didn’t make it in life are now ambling about the lovely streets of Boulder, Colorado. It looked as if they were not doing much of anything. In fact, I might bet that some still wore the same jeans they sported in the sixties, a few holes added.  And unlike Willie Nelson, most pony tails were still intact.

We found the rest of them a bit further up the road—and the mountains—in Estes Park, the gateway to the Rockies. Having stayed the night in a wonderful little lodge-like hotel RT found on the edge of Boulder, we visited the awesome Boulder Falls and then cruised on up through the gorgeous countryside to Estes Park. Our first order of business being to take care of the gnawing hunger in our empty bellies, we walked up and down the Old West plank sidewalks reading outdoor menus all along the way. We settled on a small grill with outdoor seating where we could enjoy the food and the panoramic scenery of the Rockies at the same time.

The first old hippie we met in Estes Park was our waiter. He seemed to have no clue where he was or what he was doing there. Words sort of slid out of his mouth…very slowly. His eyes were a bit glazed. After we sat at our little table and looked around for about thirty minutes, he wandered up to us and murmured something unintelligible. The pen he held was shaking like the Aspen leaves Colorado is so famous for.

RT was happy to see that the menu included hot roast beef open-faced sandwiches, one of his favorites, particularly when traveling. While I struggled to decide what I was going to order, he patiently watched another leftover hippie tune up his guitar there on the deck. Yay, we were going to be entertained with music from our teen and college years. Perhaps a little Bob Dylan, Donovan and Joan Baez would be included. But then, the musician’s girlfriend showed up and they discussed something about their obviously strained relationship which postponed our entertainment for at least twenty minutes or so.

It was probably because of that postponement that we realized the waiter hadn’t come back out in at least forty-five minutes. Other diners had noticed his absence as well and were expressing their displeasure rather loudly. Finally, RT walked inside to find the waiter who rather dreamily agreed that he was a bit behind schedule.

Finally, the musician began to play and sing—very well, I might add—and the waiter brought our order. We were very happy campers until RT noticed that he had no mashed potatoes which he had very clearly ordered. This time RT actually caught the waiter’s attention and asked if he could bring the mashed potatoes he had forgotten. RT couldn’t possibly eat a hot roast beef open-faced sandwich with neither French fries nor mashed potatoes. I understood his problem quite well as did all the other diners who complained about worse issues than missing potatoes.

The dazed waiter stared at the plate while RT explained the issue of the missing potatoes as if my husband were giving him directions to build a nuclear bomb. If I remember correctly, the waiter mouthed something like, “You wanted potatoes?”

RT said, “I ordered mashed potatoes. Where are they?”

“I dunno.” He slowly walked away pondering the question as if it were the mystery of the ages.

RT and I looked at one another. “Well,” said RT, who didn’t like to complain. “I’ll just eat the roast beef and enjoy the music.”

About that time, a guy pulled up to the deck in a pickup truck and blew the horn. The musician put down his ancient guitar and walked over to the rail to talk to the visitor. After a few minutes of conversation, the fifty-ish musician picked up the guitar, jumped over the deck railing and took off with the guy in the pickup truck.

I have no memory of my food, but apparently it tasted pretty good. RT only half enjoyed his roast beef without potatoes until he suddenly stopped eating and stared at his plate.

“Look!”

I looked. Lo and behold, far beneath layers of roast beef, gravy and bread was hidden a nice little lump of mashed potatoes. I’m sure RT ate more than usual that day just to get some potatoes in with the roast beef. He wanted to apologize to the waiter but I warned him that the poor guy was too stoned to understand or either his brain was as fried as that egg on television.

We decided to stroll down the street a bit to walk off the calories and see the sights of Estes Park which we could have easily seen from where we were…except for one attraction in particular. Just ahead of us, standing on the street corner holding the leash for a gigantic white poodle, stood a woman dressed in a bright pink clown suit with huge white gossamer wings on her back. She was rather hefty with lots of lumps herself and sported what I can only describe as wild, yellow blonde hair.

RT said, a bit too loudly, “Look, MT! Go stand beside her and I’ll take your picture.”

“No,” I whispered, suspecting the woman had escaped from a loony bin or perhaps a traveling circus had left her behind. “Walk faster, RT.”

“She’s a tourist trap. Probably selling those balloons she’s holding in her other hand.” RT was already fiddling with his camera, preparing for a shot to please National Geographic. WebShots was a thing of the future.

“No,” I continued to whisper. “She’s not here for entertainment. I have a feeling she’s real. She could even be dangerous.”

“Nobody would dress like that for real,” replied my very pragmatic husband.

“I think she does.” I kept my eyes on her at all times, hoping and praying she wasn’t hearing what RT was saying. He kept his eyes on her as well, camera in hand, waiting for her to belt out a song or start tap dancing.

Finally, when she did neither and just crossed the road with her genetically mutated poodle, he gave in and agreed that she was real. We may have found the strangest and happiest lost hippy yet. And yes, we did take pictures.

PS…I have also discovered many old hippies in various regions of our continent and beyond who have gone on to make a powerful impact on the world around them once they found the Way.

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PATRICK HENRY? July 29, 2010

Filed under: STORY — Marilyn Denny Thomas @ 10:32 pm

Other than the parking meter episode, our first morning in Germany was fairly uneventful… except that RT had a hard time getting past the fact that I ordered chili for lunch in Germany. He ordered the local fare: sausage and cabbage and potatoes. None of those three items are high on my favorites list, particularly not as a group.

With map in hand and all our worldly goods packed in the back of the little blue Opel, I boarded said vehicle and navigated RT through totally new territory in search of the north/south autobahn towards Switzerland. We were ready for our next adventure to begin.

Now, I can’t remember if I have said this hitherto fore, but my husband is a great driver. In fact, for RT, driving is not a task but an art. I drive to get where I am going. RT drives for the sheer enjoyment. And enjoy, he did. There was no speed limit on the autobahn. Need I say more? My trusty map revealed that our autobahn hugged the Rhine most all the way down to Basel, Switzerland. I was in heaven, as we sometimes say. Scattered all along the lovely river were the ruins of ancient castles, their spires still majestic above the green trees and rolling hills.

“Look, RT! Look at those beautiful castles! Oh, aren’t they awesome?”

“Can you believe this? I could go 200 miles per hour if I wanted to!”

I glanced at my 50-year-old husband. For a split second, I saw a big number “3” on his chest, a cap on his head and goggles over his eyes. Earnhardt would have been proud.

I have no idea to this day if he ever saw a castle while driving through Europe….or anything else. However, we did actually park the vehicle long enough to enjoy a nice patio lunch in Heidelberg and then we toured the famous castle, a delightful change in RT’s usual drive-by vacations. A couple of hours later, we were back on the autobahn headed south.

What happened next was, and still is, a great mystery. Suddenly, we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic which is totally unheard of on Europe’s autobahns. RT looked at his watch. We were losing time…fast. At that rate, we would never get to veer over to drive through the Alsace Lorraine section of France.

Finally, after at least a half hour creeping along the highway, I rolled my window down and shouted to the driver in the vehicle in the lane next to us. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes, m’am! I’m from Georgia. Where y’all from?”

I could have kissed him.

RT leaned around me and asked, “What’s going on here? Has there been an accident up the road?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. We’re entering the U.S. Air Force base, Patrick Henry. It’s always like this.”

RT and I nearly fainted right there in our seats. How on earth had we gotten off the autobahn? We were entering a military base in Germany just after 9-11.

“Can we turn around?”  RT’s idea sounded good to me.

“Nope. No u-turns,” said our fellow southerner. “When you get to the checkpoint, just pull over to the side of the street. A soldier will go over to you and find out what you’re doing here. Then, if they are satisfied with your story, they will probably escort you off the base. If not…well….”

Oh, my. This was more serious than I thought.

And it was. When we came to the area the Georgian described, a gigantic sign loomed high ahead of us with three lines of huge text: DEFCON CHARLIE! RT informed me that the sign meant the base was on the highest level of alert short of Defcon Delta which meant war.

Then, we remembered 9-11. My dear husband and I were driving uninvited onto an American air force base in Germany only one month after 9-11 with absolutely no excuse as to why were there other than we were perhaps lost.

The first soldier who came over to interview us was German. He waved for an English-speaking fellow who listened somewhat patiently to RT’s roundabout way of telling our story. I wondered for a while if the guy thought RT was lying. I figured the verdict was 50/50. Nevertheless, with neither a smile nor a frown, the young soldier waved us further off the road and said, “Wait here.”

I can’t recall how long we waited there staring at the Defcon Charlie sign, but after a while, a jeep rode by us with its siren screaming and the guy motioned for us to follow. And follow, we did. He didn’t set us free until we were at least five miles down our original autobahn.

But not to worry. Earnhardt made up for lost time and we arrived in France just before dark, castles unseen.

 

Foreign Parking Meters July 25, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Marilyn Denny Thomas @ 12:23 pm

Never would I have believed that I would get RT to Europe before we died, but an unusual set of circumstances came together in the fall of 2001. We were invited earlier in the year to a conference in Vienna, Austria. RT had been perfectly happy for me to attend while he stayed behind and ran the business. I, quite understandably, wanted my husband to enjoy the only trip to Europe either of us might ever have the opportunity to experience.

There was no budging him until around 8:00 one September morning as we were getting ready to leave for work. RT always turns on every TV and radio in the house so that as he goes from room to room, not one twitter of news will be missed. From the bedroom, he shouted for me to join him in front of the television. The Today Show was just then replaying the video of a plane flying straight into the side of one of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. We watched in shock while the second plane attacked on live television and our emotions changed from shock to anger to grief.

Everything changed forever that day including RT’s view of my flying to Europe alone only one month after 9-11. He decided there was nothing to do but go with me. If something happened to me, our entire family would blame him for not going with me even though no one stopped to think that he would be dead, too. Anyway, he prepared the business as best he could, packed his bags and we set off to fly Air Canada to Frankfurt where we rented a little blue Opel sportswagon and made our way down the Rhine River Valley through Germany, Switzerland, France, Italy and Austria to Vienna, the ancient city of music on the Danube.

We could hardly believe our eyes and ears. We were in Germany. Our first hotel on the Rhine was incredible. Named The Crone (Crown), it looked and felt medieval and it actually was very, very old. Grape vines grew everywhere—down the hills behind the hotel and all over the building itself, creating a shady repose to dine under a grape-filled arbor. Across the street, the blue Rhine flowed gently by, castles high up on the hills overlooking the river vessels below.

After sleeping off our jet lag in that beautiful place—Rudesheim on the Rhine—we drove down the street to eat lunch in the quaint little town. The parking areas there were like some of ours in America…sort of. A big board stood at the side of the street showing instructions to which was attached a meter-like thingy. Did I mention the instructions were in German? They were. As I was trying to read the sign using my one page of German for Travelers, RT was trying to put coins in every hole he could find. I had almost translated the instructions when another person preparing to park came up to the meter. RT tried his best to ask him, using his own personal sign language, how the thing worked. The man fiddled with the machine a minute and out came a large gold coin. He immediately opened his hand to show it to RT who grabbed the coin from the man’s hand and shouted, “Thank you!” He turned around, placed the coin in the meter and grabbed the receipt that printed out.

“Come on, we’re late,” he said to me as he put the receipt in his wallet.

“You stole that man’s coin, RT.” I’m sure I was frowning.

“No, I didn’t. He gave it to me.” Happily, RT started across the street to the restaurant we had chosen.

I glanced back at the supposedly benevolent guy. He mumbled something in German. I think it was, “Crazy Americans.”

Oddly enough, on our return trip from Vienna to Frankfurt, we drove into one of those wonderful  little villages in Bavaria that looked like it came straight out of a fairy tale and experienced another parking meter fiasco. This time an individual meter demanded a few pfennings (German coins) or else. But then again, perhaps not. The sign seemed to say that we needed a parking pass, a little card which we had no idea how to acquire.

At that point, RT did something totally uncharacteristic. He stopped a passerby to ask how to get a parking pass. After I fainted, I gained my balance and listened to the strange conversation between my English/Spanish-speaking husband and the German-speaking Austrian. You can’t imagine how happy we were that the man began to speak in somewhat broken although fairly comprehensible English.

As we say in the South, come to find out, would-be parkers were to go to the village Rathskeller to buy a parking pass. RT was relieved to gain that information but the problem was, the man said, the Rathskeller was closed for whatever Europeans call their two-hour lunch siesta. Fortunately, while RT was heaving a big sigh of disappointment and I was engrossed in the storybook architecture, the nice gentleman informed RT that he just happened to be the town manager and could easily get into the Rathskeller to get us a pass, even during siesta time.

And so, while a happy RT and the Austrian hurried off to the Rathskeller–which, by the way, was the Town Hall–I guarded the little blue Opel and listened to the growling in my stomach. To this day, I love Pumpkin Soup. We found it in a lovely little restaurant on the river Inn…after we hung the parking pass on the rearview mirror. To this day, I’m not sure that was the proper location….

 

Insert July 22, 2010

Filed under: Author Comments — Marilyn Denny Thomas @ 11:56 am

Hello Readers!

“Unplanned Vacations” was accidentally left out of the wordpress blog. Scroll down for “30 Years and Counting.” Enjoy!

 

Unplanned Vacations

Filed under: STORY — Marilyn Denny Thomas @ 11:51 am

You may be thinking that all our vacations were unplanned and you would be correct in your assessment. However, in June of 1977, RT and I decided (at the last minute, I’m sure) to take the kids on an overnighter to Atlantic Beach for our wedding anniversary. Strange, I have no memory of that first day, but later that night after the girls were asleep, RT turned to me and said, “Let’s take the ferry over to Ocracoke and ride on up to Nags Head for a day or two.” Of course, I said, “Okay, sounds good to me,” although I was thinking that RT and I had one change of clothing which only included two pairs of underwear each. (Have you ever wondered why one piece of clothing is called a “pair?” Is it because there are two holes for your legs to go through? Hmmm….) I always took extra clothing for the children so they were okay.

After a few minutes of mulling the clothing issue over, I versed my concern. “RT,” I said, “we only have one change of clothing and that includes underwear.”
 
“Oh, don’t worry. We can wash them out every night and if things get too bad, we can go to a laundry mat.”
 
“Okay,” I agreed.
 
And so, the next morning we thrilled the girls with the good news and headed out to traverse the narrow roads and ferries through Ocracoke up to Nags Head, enjoying the awesome beaches, wild horses and the Hatteras Light House along the way. As usual, RT didn’t stop anywhere except to eat lunch. Not even at the light house. That’s why we have since dubbed him The Drive-by Tourist. More to come on that issue. The only comment I’ll add at this point is that RT was, and is, always in a hurry because something might happen in the business that would call him back. And that’s why, when he pulled the Chevy into Hardee’s parking lot, he instructed our two little girls—particularly Joelle who always ordered a hamburger with no this, that and the other—thusly, “Now, just order a plain ol’ hamburger!”

And she did just that. Thirty minutes later, hot and sweaty and ill as a hornet, RT and I spotted our innocent babies coming out of Hardees. By the way, there were no drive-through fast food chains in 1977. RT tried to control his impatience. After all, this was our vacation. The girls carried their fragrant char-grilled loot with happy smiles on their little faces, reaching the Chevy with the air of a job well done.

“I told you to order a plain hamburger, Joelle. What did you get?”
 
“A plain hamburger,” she replied.
 
“Then, why did it take so long?” RT was confused, as was I.
 
“Because they had to make me a special plain hamburger with nothing on it.”
 
“But that’s not what I said,” moaned her frustrated daddy.
 
“Yes, you did. You said to get a plain hamburger and that’s exactly what I ordered.” She smiled at him with her blueberry eyes as if to say, “And that’s that.”
 
A little later, we pulled up to one of those local beachfront motels which are still nice on the Outer Banks and got a room for the night. The next morning, RT walked into the office and reserved a room for that night. The third day, he did the same thing, amusing the clerk but not surprising him because this was the man with wet underwear hanging on his car’s antenna.
 
That day we visited the Wright Brothers’ Memorial which Jodi was certain was a building dedicated to the Righteous Brothers and cried when we told her otherwise. At seven, she was more into music than aviation history. Later, we took the girls to a huge waterslide and watched Jodi make about three trips down the slide to Joelle’s one. They were different that way.
 
On the third night, RT turned to me and said, “I’ve been thinking about driving on up to Chincoteague, Virginia. Joelle loves the Misty books and I’m sure both girls would like to see where it all happened.”
 
What a great idea. RT was, and is, a good daddy for all his idiosyncrasies. The girls, ages seven and nine, were thrilled. Joelle had tears in her eyes. She would see the homeland of her hero, Misty, and all the ponies she read about nearly every night. Jodi was happy, too. She just wasn’t quite as into the book thing as Joelle was. She was too busy rearranging her dollhouse and leading the neighborhood children on adventures through the woods behind our house.
 
After enduring the beautiful but harrowing drive across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, we arrived in Chincoteague in early afternoon, just in time to “ride by” the beach where the pony roundup takes place and drive over to Assateague before sundown. I’m sorry to say that we didn’t see the first pony but we had seen wild horses on Ocracoke so the girls were satisfied. The next morning we actually exited the Chevy to visit the Misty Museum which housed the stuffed carcass of…guess who? Joelle’s friend, Misty, the little pony who still blesses the hearts of children all over the world.
 
We have pictures if you’d like to see them.
 
Oh, we did stop at the laundry mat after I jerked RT’s underwear off the antenna and warned him, “Don’t ever do that again!”
 

30 Years and Counting July 21, 2010

Filed under: STORY — Marilyn Denny Thomas @ 7:03 pm

In early spring of 1996, three months after our daughter brought her twin boys home from the hospital, I began nagging RT. “I’m going somewhere new and wonderful for our 30th anniversary and I’d like you to go with me. I plan to be gone longer than a week…just so you’ll know.”

“I never know when I can leave the business; you know that.”

“Yes, I do, but I just want you to be pre-warned. I’m going.” Thirty years makes a person a bit more aggressive.

The situation went on like that until the third week in May and then, lo and behold, RT’s mother landed up in the hospital. To this day, we are still not sure what her problem was, but after a week of TLC she was feeling better than she had in quite a while. And so, although the trip looked impossible, RT finally got into the groove and we packed our bags, loaded the car and headed to the hospital. Mama was just fine, smiling and chatting to everyone who came by. RT’s sister said, “Go on,” and so we did.

We left the hospital and RT asked me, “Where do you want to go?”

“Anyplace is fine with me.” I smiled to show him I really meant it. I had him now. We were going somewhere. I was thinking we might even make it to the Mississippi.

RT pulled the car over into a parking lot for a minute to ponder our journey. “I’ve always wanted to drive across country to Colorado.”

“Sounds good to me.” I think I grinned and clapped my hands. “Go West, young man, go West!”

RT pulled out of the parking lot and within an hour, we were on I-40 headed towards Asheville, NC, and across the heartland of America to the Rocky Mountains and the Grand Canyon.

Now, RT is always in a hurry. However, it wasn’t until the following morning as we left our hotel in Asheville and he checked in with our business manager, that he realized he’d better hurry faster than ever to get past the PR, the point of no return. If not, the business would call him back quicker than one could shake a stick.

RT makes a lot of plans that he keeps to himself until he sees I need to know. One of those plans was to pack our large pieces of luggage as if we would be traveling about two weeks. Added to that, we each took a small empty bag. Into that bag, I was to place my clothing for the following day so that we didn’t have to take so much luggage into each hotel and therefore, save time. It was a pretty good plan.

As we carried our small bags back out to the car and loaded up in Asheville, RT gave me instructions on how we could move our traveling process along even faster. Since both of us had gone to the bathroom in the hotel, he planned to drive through the first McDonald’s we saw and grab something to go…our only meal until dinner. He furthermore instructed me to make up my mind what I wanted to order before we got to McDonald’s window so as to take up less time. Certainly, I knew the menu after 30-some years, he commented.

One never knows when they might add something new, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. I had learned a lot in 30 years. But to my surprise, instead of driving around to the drive-thru, RT whipped the car into the first parking slot he saw and jumped out. I was in shock. I had memorized his instructions down to a “T” and now, all of a sudden, I had no idea what to do. I jumped out of the car behind him and did a little sprint to keep up. In my younger years, friends often said I looked rather Asian and in this situation, I’m sure I looked like an obedient little Asian wife following two or three yards behind her husband. Actually, this scene has appeared quite often in our now 44 years of marriage.

I walked as fast as I could but RT had a big jump on me so I nearly ran, keeping my eyes near his feet so I wouldn’t trip on the way to wherever he was going. The next thing I knew, I literally bumped into RT’s back. He spun around and exclaimed “You’re in the damned wrong room!”

Stunned, I looked around and behold, I was definitely in the wrong room…the men’s room, and I was about to follow RT into a stall. I whirled around and got out of there as fast as I could. It was not until I slammed the door to my own safe women’s stall that I realized how funny the situation was.

This time I laughed.

 

Guns, Grasshoppers and Pickup Trucks July 18, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Marilyn Denny Thomas @ 3:12 pm

On one of our regular Sunday excursions a few years later, RT and I were headed home from a pleasurable day of surf fishing at Ft. Fisher. I can’t remember where the girls were…with friends, more than likely. My husband and I had enjoyed a sunny day of good fishing as well as the comfortable companionship happily married parents experience when the opportunity arises.

Cruising along NC Highway 117 about twilight (Interstate 40 didn’t exist at the time), I suddenly realized I had to go to the bathroom. I was, as we sometimes say, popping. As usual, I let my husband know of my distress more than once before he realized I was not just chatting. The problem was that even though Interstate 40 spouts very few restrooms from Wilmington to Benson to this day, Highway 117 had nearly zilch and we had left those two back in Castle Hayne.

I’ll have to give RT credit, he became very concerned for me in my misery and finally, he turned to me and said something like, “You know there are no restrooms before we get home, right? And that’s at least 40 miles, right?”

While squirming miserably, I nodded in agreement. It was definitely an emergency situation and I didn’t know what to do.

Not to worry. RT knew what to do. His suggestion was that he pull down one of the many logging paths along the highway so that I could hide behind the truck and take care of my problem. Hating the thought but knowing nothing else to do, I agreed. And so my dear helpful husband turned onto a logging path and bumped my painful bladder as if he were playing hobby horsie with the children. 

Very carefully, I exited the truck cab and hit the ground with a jar that sent more pain throughout my entire body. I crept around to the front of the truck while my suddenly patient  husband waited in the cab listening to the ballgame on the radio.

The next thing I remember was being in a crouched position concerned that the fading sunlight was hiding all sorts of insects and reptiles that could have at that moment been crawling all around my feet and various other parts of my body. However, in the following moment, those worries were blasted right out of my mind by a gunshot that sounded like a sawed-off shotgun right in my ear. I was stunned. I was shot. I had no doubt I was dying. My ears were ringing and I was still crouched on the ground with my shorts dangling about my feet.

While waiting to fall over and breathe my last, I am sorry to say that I had only one thought. I did not think about saying goodbye to my husband or my children. I didn’t even think about confessing my sins in preparation for the Great White Throne Judgment. I didn’t even pray to live because I was already dead. I only prayed, “Please Lord, don’t let them find me with my pants down.”

Squirming this way and that to pull up my shorts, I suddenly realized that I was now standing and I wasn’t dead. Actually, I wasn’t even bleeding. That meant that RT was the one who was shot. I hurried to button my clothing so that I could get to my suffering husband as soon as possible. In retrospect, I now assume that during the gun blast, I had been relieved of my pain because I felt much better and was able to run around the truck to find RT. And there he was. Standing beside the tailgate, he held in both hands—calmly, I might add—a 357 magnum, aiming at something I couldn’t see while preparing to shoot…again.

Divorce was now priority number one in my mind. RT could not imagine why I was so angry. Didn’t he take care of me by finding a restroom up a logging path? Didn’t he wait patiently while I took care of my business? Why, he didn’t even hurry me! Why on earth should I be mad? Then, he started laughing which any husband should know is not the best way to alleviate a wife’s anger. I did not laugh. I threatened a quicker divorce if he didn’t stop.

I cannot recall what year I began to think the logging path debacle was the least bit funny. Perhaps when RT began to tell our children and friends a few years later. However, I do find it interesting that as I think about it once again, I realize I’m not laughing….even now.