Ageless and Fun

Gardening is also excavation and treasure hunting. I've unearthed needles, pieces of glass from broken bottles, and decomposing stuff I can't identify. My favorite finds are toys, like the plastic piece from a pistol. Pictured above are my favorites because after a good scrubbing, I could play with them. The marble reminds me that glass, like the sharp not-so-fun pieces, don't break down naturally at all. 

The two treasures seemed almost new, making quality toys not just fragile collectables to pass from one generation to the next. After being underground for years, they hadn't lost their magic.

The army guy had me scratching my head to know who he was. So I took him on an adventure to Wegmans. The toy sparked interest from other writers assembled for our serious meeting. But no one could give me information about it, until R. J. (Robert) Repici slid into his seat as the meeting began. Catching a glimpse of the action figure that still held center stage on our shared table, Robert said with his usual calm comportment, “Oh, Sergeant Savage.”

“Robert. You know who he is?” I asked, excited.

This teacher, screenwriter and pop culture aficionado pulled up a site on his computer featuring Sergeant Savage and the Screaming Eagles. Hasbro had made this line of 3¾ inch G.I.Joe action figures in 1995. “Wow, thanks Robert. I was wondering who he was,” I said, grateful and impressed.

At home, I added the marble to my childhood collection and stationed the sergeant to guard my dinning room table.

I guess writers never grow up. Maybe we appreciate toys more as we get older, especially the playthings that don't age, even after a tough life underground. And it's finder's keepers when someone else's playthings surface in my yard.

Cheap Thrills

 

 

            Creativity is the mother of keeping daily life on a shoestring budget from becoming ho-hum.

 

            Our need to be frugal with entertainment keeps my husband local; in front of the TV.  On the side table next to where I sit on our comfy loveseat beside my hubby in front of his electronic mistress Boob Tube Betty, that seductress of attention via mind numbing massage, I keep foot cream. 

            As Betty lures my husband visually with her explosions and fast vehicles, my work is hands-on.  Starting at his feet, I'm in competition for his attention.  My odd fetish of finding this humble service relaxing myself, works to help digestion after dinner and connecting us hands to feet while questioning Alex Trebec.

            Prying my husband from Betty before dinner came about with the concept of sexy mashed potatoes.  Since he doesn't like whipped potatoes and my mashing left lumps, I prepared the spuds as usual, saving the last step for him.  I promised to watch his biceps bulge as he pounded with the manal masher.  He seemed to enjoy this because he could assure the texture was to his liking.  Could I get away with sexy meatballs?

            Goading a loved one to the table without Betty lit up as the center piece can be challenging.  Although allowing her in the bedroom, I yank her cable when it comes to replacing my lit candles for her lit monitor. 

            I don't trust myself to not turn certain subjects of conversation volutile during our evening meal, so I adopt other people's words.  Recently, I printed out Bill Withers' lyrics to the song, "Lean On Me" after hearing it sung on the "Mike and Molly" situation comedy (alright, thanks Betty).  I put the copy at our man's place setting as a foretasty reminder.  During dinner our attempts at harmony were more fun than a half hour of Betty.  The key was choosing a song with a tune familiar to both of us that had meaning.

            Timing is everything.  A spouse knows when to suggest something new, and when to let Betty have her way after a long miserable work day that's left a spouse empty for antics.  That's when only Betty will do, and I'm grateful for her.       

 

Taurus Taps

 

            Not just a tap, as you can see, the car never had a chance.  A truck hit it, but I suffered no alignment damage or crushed frame.  Like a stunt woman in movies I don't like to view, my car spun on ice until it faced the vehicle that impacted it.  Another first: facing north in a southbound lane, nose-to-nose with the truck that should be behind me.

            Poor Taurus.  You served us well.  Even now in your deformity, you kick over and labor forward.  But no.  You must rest now, as we harvest your still beating innards to give automotive life to other Tauruses, even those who've outlived your years.  This is more dignified than resurrecting you as a Frankenstein's monster car with stitched skeleton and multi-colored panels.  Unlike the fiction, your compromised system is beyond endurance.  Your resurrection would be brief and more lethal. 

            We stripped you of your magnets, CDs, Ezpass, camping chairs and other trunk contents.  And yes, even the simple wooden cross that hung from the rearview mirror as I watched in horror the truck bearing down on us.  You may keep the Mickey Mouse head antenna decoration fashioned into a soccer ball that has weathered into a ping-pong ball.  I no longer need it to help me find you among the other blue Tauruses parked in the ShopRite parking lot.  I will nevermore seek your comfortable, dependable body from other similar makes and models.

            Our family mourns your youth, low mileage and neat upholstery.  We can't replace those.  Our brightest hope is another used Taurus whose previous family hasn't abused it.

            In the end, all is rust.  And to rust and the graveyard all Tauruses must go.        

              

           

Chevette Shade

 

            Our totaled 2006 Ford Taurus arose (reincarnated may be a better word) in a white 1995 Nissan Altima. 

            Come to think of it, it's really the ghost of my mother's old Chevy Chevette.  That car took a beating hauling food, people and even furniture.  Like Mom's brown Chevy, our new but very used Altima jiggles and clunks with its rust-worn doors and spunky little motor.  As it bucks into gear, I realize I've become my mother.  Neither of us like driving.  Memories of nasty break downs on the side of the road would make any technically challenged old gal panic driving a vehicle with mysterious mechanical issues. 

            So far so good, though.  The only disabilities are: broken gas gauge (I don't own a cell phone, so hubby is bracing for a call from an unknown number with my voice pleading for gas), sunroof doesn't retract (doesn't leak though, bonus!); the overhead light rattles if I remove the tattered cardboard air freshener that's wedged into it; wing of visor actually flaps when in use; if turning the key while in park doesn't turn over the car, putting the control in neutral will.  And like us grandmas, the smell an old car gives off makes one glad all the windows work.

            To keep this mobile ghost friendly, on its rearview mirror I hung the same wooden cross that swung in front of me during the accident.  I'm still debating removing the air freshener wedge and replacing it with a cross I made from palm given out last Sunday at church.  I added a trusty umbrella to the back seat, an Aldi quarter to the side compartment and shopping bags to the trunk.  Since all cars look alike to me except for their size and color, I wrapped a bright orange pipe cleaner around the Nissan's antenna to save time finding it in a parking lot glowing with small white cars.

            I'm trying not to be super religious or superstitious in my blessing of the auto.  But, not taking any chances, my first trip was to church.  The accelerating rev and loud idling were hymns of comfort, as Mom's Chevette had sung similar tunes. 

            Memories of sitting in the passenger's seat with Mom at the wheel are nostalgic with a feeling of safety.  In spite of her stress, she typically appeared confident.  Not me.  My kids were the best behaved travelers.  They knew any distraction could easily frazzle me and send us all to the hospital instead of Grandma's house.  Today I gladly sit in their passenger's seats but still create tension.

            Mom continues to laments the loss of her car.  "My Chevette was a good little car," she's incline to say when the subject of autos comes up.  I hope history continues to repeat itself in her car's 1995 ghost.