Dawn Byrne

My socks only touched the even number steps. After 14, I landed on the living room carpet in front of Grandma's ceramic Buddha. He was six inches tall. I measured him with the ruler my sister got from the third grade science fair. Buddha smiled across the room at Grandma snoring in her brown leather chair, with his legs crossed inside-out on top of our broken TV.

Liz squatted on the floor with our brother's rubber ball that had pimples on it. She set it in different places around the room, ob-serv-ing like a real scientist. Besides the ball, she had tried a lemon drop, and a bobbin from Grandma's sewing machine in her experiment that morning.

"Liz, doncha think Grandma looks like Buddha?" I asked.

"You're stupid," Liz said. "He's a man. Grandma's got hair and boobs."

"Yeah, but when her hair's wet, she looks bald. And her boobs look like extra long bellies rollin' over the sides of her big one." Grandma, wet in the sun, flashed into my head. "Maybe she's his wife."

"Gods don't have wives." Liz dribbled the ball.

"What about Zeus? He's married, and he's king of all the gods."

"People don't believe in that anymore," Liz said. "Those were just stories made up before people got smarter." She steadied the ball on the TV. It rolled to the left and circled a little. I didn't let on I agreed with Liz's de-duc-tion about pretend gods.

I asked, "Do you think people rub Buddha's belly for luck the way I like hugging Grandma's? I feel lucky magic when I'm near her belly."

"You make it sound like some sort of pot of gold. We're not Irish. And we don't worship Buddha either."

Liz chucked the ball into the kitchen. She made an ob-ser-va-tion of Buddha, then Grandma. "Grandma's tan does sort of make her look like the brown statue that got broke." Liz turned back to the TV. "This green one's prettier though." She rubbed its head.

"See?" I asked. "Green...Irish. Like the Barney Stone. Doncha rub that for good luck too?" Boy, was I proud of my de-duc-tion.

"No," Liz said as she climbed onto our floor console and stood up, with Buddha between her feet. "You kiss it while you hang over it." She bent until she was face to upside-down face with him. Her blonde hair dangled across the TV's screen like a grass skirt.

Grandma's sleep meditation was over in one extra loud snort. "Get down from there and leave that statue alone. I still can't get the head to stay on the one your brother broke." She coughed and shifted in her chair. The lady smell that stayed in the leather of the chair, even when she stood up, got stronger.

"I did it!" Liz said with her arms up. She jumped off the TV. "I kissed the Blarney Buddha's belly."

Grandma said something real low that I couldn't hear. She leaned to the right and then to the left. One of her huge crinkly hands disappeared each time into the big pockets sticking out from the sides of her recliner. With the TV not working, I heard sounds in the living room I didn't remember hearing before, like Grandma's chair burping when she moved in it, and the springy squeak when Liz popped onto the couch. I bounced on the carpet near the front door. That was where the floor creaked the loudest.

Liz investigated the rim and sides of an empty cup on the end table. She rolled it between her hands, but it dropped onto the coffee table upside down with a 'clump'. Grandma breathed a noisy breath and kept digging.

I sat with Liz on the couch next to Grandm'a recliner. Liz lifted her feet off the floor and criss-crossed her legs. She asked, "Grandma, can you sit in a lotus position?"

Wiggling on the couch, I forcing myself to keep quiet. Now that Liz had given up on the boring stuff, the fun started. In my head, I followed her scientific pro-ce-dure. Grandma and Buddha actually were two of the roundest things in the house.

"What?" Grandma asked.

"You know, on the floor, like Buddha on his little slab. I don't believe a real person with a belly can do it."

"How can I do that with only one leg?" Grandma pulled out a TV Guide, a red marker, a cone-shaped spool of thread, and a can of 3-IN-ONE oil from the chairs pockets.

I had forgotten too-about Grandma needing another leg to sit cross-legged.

Liz rolled her eyes from the leg that wasn't there to the ceiling, and kept them there for a few seconds. Then she asked, "Can you try it anyway, please? I want to also see which direction your body rolls."

"What for?" Grandma pull out a deck of cards and an empty tic tac dispenser, and piled them on a TV table.

"I'm trying to figure out how level the house is. Round stuff works the best," Liz replied.

I stopped fidgeting. Excitement bubbled inside me to see if Grandma would do it. Liz was her favorite because she was named after Grandma. Maybe Grandma would try since Liz asked her to do it.

"If I got on that floor, I'd never get up. Now run upstairs and see if my cigarettes are in the bathroom." Yep, Liz was her favorite. She always asks her to get the cigarettes.

"I'll get 'em." I didn't give Liz a chance to beat me to them.

I came back, plunking myself down every step, holding the gold pack of Marlboros. "Here you go," I said, handing it to Grandma and backing away.

Grandma flipped open the book of matches that was tucked under the cellophane around the cigarettes. "Damn it to hell."

My voice jumped: "What's the matter?"

"The match book's empty."

"Do you want me to get another one from the kitchen?" I froze on tiptoes, with a hand behind my back.

"No I found one," Grandma said, picking a bent pack of matches out from the space between the arm of her recliner and seat cushion. She shook the cigarettes until one popped out above the rest, then picked it out and shoved it between her lips.

I turned to leave.

"Wait a minute," Grandma said from the side of her mouth not clamping down on the cigarette. "Get back here. One's missing."

I swiveled around and handed over the cigarette. Grandma's acusing eye as she struck the match alive made me want to cry, but I couldn't in front of Liz, she'd make fun of me.

"I wasn't going to smoke it," I said. "Honest. I wanted it for Buddha."

, Grandma took the cigarette out of her mouth. "For what?"

Her question helped me control myself. "Don't people burn stuff in the little ash tray that sits in front of Buddha? I figured that, a cigarette could make some real good ashes for a god. More than them skimpy ones from those punk sticks."

"You leave my cigarettes alone, you hear? They're for me."

I slouched into a corner of the couch.

Liz asked, "Why were they in the bathroom, Grandma?"

"To help me relax in there."

"When you're...?" Liz began.

"Shit. Shit. Shit." Grandma dropped the lit match, and stomped her foot on it. "You made me burn myself. What's with all the questions anyhow? What do I look like? The Dalai Lama?"

Liz and I chanted, "No, Buddha."

"Do you hum and meditate in the bathroom?" I asked. "Don't you always say that happiness is a good bowel movement?"

"What?" Grandma's deep scratchy voice came from one side of her mouth as she finally lit her cigarette. "I just make that up for laughs."

"Buddha must laugh a lot," I said. "He's always smiling. He's got no teeth, like you, just a dark space."

Grandma squinted at the smiling god across the room, and sighed at the dark screen below him.

The doorbell rang.

"Elizabeth, go get the door." Grandma readjusted her dress, burped (not the chair this time), and sent more puffs of her goddessness into the air.

Mrs. Moores and Ms. Perry, the neighbors, came into our living room. If the TV was working, their noisy, silly words would've bumped higher than its volume.

They handed Grandma a box of Marlboros and a gold Buddha statue. Liz ran upstairs when they waved at us.

"Dawn, go put the tea water on for my worshipers." Grandma laughed.

I slid on purpose across the waxed kitchen floor, and caught myself at the stove. It seeped gas because the pilot light would never stay lit. I never got used to the nasty smell, even though I tried to because it was always there in the kitchen.

The mugs without handles worked good enough for the neighbors; Grandma's flamingo one for her; a flowered one for me. I counted out the tea bags. They made my nose happy.

My bag ripped so easy. The dry brown stuff was like the tobacco that I emptied from a cigarette box Grandma had asked me to throw away. How could two things that looked alike, smell so different?

I served the tea in the living room, and went back to the kitchen to drink mine. Liz came down to check on her penicillin experiment.

"Liz, did you ever learn about tea leaves in Mr. Boykins' science class?"

"What?" Liz asked, closing the bread box. The four day old bread smelled almost as bad as the fresh gas from the stove.

I lifted my mug with leaves floating in the steaming water and put it under Liz's nose. "We can read them like Aunt Bebe used to. Do you want me to make you some tea?"

"I'll fix it myself."

The dark nasty pieces stuck to my tongue. Liz hy-poth-e-sized that if we waited, all the leaves would sink to the bottom.

The adults still talked and laughed in the other room. Brown Buddha smiled from the counter above a ring of drying glue around his thick neck. My con-clu-sion: finding pictures in the soggy brown mess at the bottom of our mugs turned a boring Saturday into mystical, scientific fun.

Your responses to my post from last year on allergy issues has inspired me to share my doctor's recent findings. I'm trying to piece together exactly why I struggle with sinus and ear issues and how best to cope with them.

After a year of weekly allergy shots, my ENT required me to make an office visit for a procedure. He numbed my sinuses and inserted a super skinny tube with a light in search of polyps. While investigating, he told me I still had adenoids, or some remains of them. Apparently, most people's adenoids are gone by adolescence even if they aren't removed in childhood.

"Could this be why I get so many ear infections?" I asked.

"Possibly," he answered.

Finally, a clue as to why I've suffered beyond childhood with ear infections. Human ears, nose and throat surely are a strongly trinity.

My history includes nose bleeds as a child. Allergies became an issue during my teens. But the ear infections never stopped. My mother wanted the doctor to take out my tonsils. Those were the days when surgeons started to pull back from performing this minor operation. Mom never heard of adenoids.

Was Mom on the right trail? One of my doctors told her I had smaller than average ear tubes (not sure what it's called), keeping my ears from properly drying. This can cause bacteria to build up and breed infection. In spite of drying my ears after showering and avoiding swimming, infections persisted. In summer heat, moisture from perspiration may also be a culprit for those infections that frustrate me.

Now I instill a drop of alcohol in each ear after showering to dry up water and moisture. This may also keep infection down by killing bacteria. I believe using a neti pot to flush my sinuses, when allergy season is bad, helps reduce ear infections as well as sinus infections.

Last year, when I posted about beginning allergy shots, I had gum pain that turned out to be a badly infected tooth that needed root canal. That's how painful sinus can be. As I write this, my gum is throbbing. Another tooth infection? Or sinus pain?

I receive allergy shots every other week now. This is the second phase of a three year possible treatment for allergies that may also be a factor in my ear issues. Small improvement may be the result of the shots, along with my alcohol regiment and neti pot. I'm experiencing less body moisture due to natural aging. My guess is, this also helps with my nose running less.

I'm no doctor and am grateful to those who have aided me in pain relief. I'm just trying to figure out what the whole story is with my sinuses and ears. Allergens surely have been my silent enemy, but winter ear infections always boggled me.

Sinus issues and ear infections may not be deadly, but the pain and recovery can significantly dim quality of life. My wise ENT said that frequent and extended bouts of pain and discomfort can slip one into depression, which can be deadly. So many people suffer from these health issues. Thank you again for the information you included in your comments to my last post on this topic. I look forward to others.

Squirrel's NOT Gone

My husband doesn't need a wild animal skittering through our house causing disasters like in the movie, “National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.” Joe alone wreaks havoc. But I'm the squirrely one, agreeing to live in another Handyman's Special; skunked again.

Our single dwelling stood out amongst neighbors' properties: no gutters, crumbling front steps and muddy driveway. But we were two poor city kids, grown, and had made it out of the neighborhood, and into the suburbs.

If you buy a not-quite-perfect house to live in with your children, you likely can't afford a new roof. Investigate for past water damage under the lid of your house. One absolute with a fix-me-upper is that even if the roof doesn't leak when you move in, that's where its incontinence will resume. So what you do is pray. Not that it won't leak, that's a miracle the most devout laugh at. But that when it does, your kids don't need braces on their teeth. Three of our four children needed to be wired, with accessories. Braces and a leaky roof just go together.

The gutters, driveway, steps and, yes, roof have been replaced, along with the heating system. Paneling ripped down and siding put up. Gallons of applied joint compound and paint have aged and need revitalizing. Wall-to-wall carpeting disappeared, revealing hard wood flooring ready to be refinished. And, besides a new roof, an old house requires an updated electrical system...

Our granddaughter ran through our empty living room on the gouged, paint-splotched wood floors. Although I had cleaned, it appeared she visited a third world home. Her petite stamping and voice resounded off exposed beams overhead where the ceiling used to hang.

On the second story, a gap in the bathroom floor limited privacy from below. Split boards exposed someone in the front bedroom when the bedroom light was on. But because of this, we did have decent visibility at night in the living room when the electric was off on the first floor.

Joe's eternal efforts to revamp our needy home single-handed, made some days inconvenient. I sat at my vanity one morning and the lights blinked off. Without blinking myself, I picked up a hand mirror and finished my toilet in light coming through the bedroom window. Mostly bind without my glasses anyway, I'm used to farding with help from the Force for cosmetic accuracy.

Once downstairs, breakfast had its quirks too. Lifting a loaf of bread from the open bread basket, I found pieces of the kitchen ceiling. I thought the white and off-white chunks of various size were large crumbs of stale bread that had fallen out of the bread bag. But the weight of them, as I picked them out of the basket, tipped me off to what they really were. Then I became a bird in Hansel and Gretel picking up ceiling rubble that marked the path of Joe's progress with the electrical work.

After the kitchen demolition, our cat puzzled me with an odd stare while standing at his food bowl. “You have food,” I said to him. His answered look of, “Hell-oo” caused me to inspect his meal more closely. I fingered the altered colored pieces of kibble. Ceiling debris lay amongst the remnants of food at the bottom of his bowl.

“I hung up a drop cloth,” Joe replied when I relayed the cat's complaint. “Some must've fallen out of it when I took it down.”

Then our granddaughter frolicked into the kitchen. She froze in the middle of the room, gazing upwards. Not yet two-years-old, her curly head moved as if in wonder at a rainbow. A colorless strip in the ceiling with wires licking through it ran from wall to wall. Starting in the middle of the room, her upturned face rotated in slow motion to the left, to the right, then back to the middle where a light and fan hung last time she visited. After repeating her inspection, she faced me and asked, “Fan?”

On her next visit, she toddled to the kitchen and tilted her face upwards, observing the replaced light and fan. She nodded and said, “Light” then went about her business of scampering through the echoing house.

My neighbor admired our seashore-blue dining room. She looked concerned when I told her about the walls now also disappearing throughout the house. My only solace to her was: “Joe hasn't started the dining room yet. So far he only disabled the electricity.”

Later, he worked in the basement feeding an exploring wire throughout the house. On my way into the dining room, the wire snake struck at me from between a remaining wall and its molding. It caught on my blouse and, as more slithered out from the wall, I fumble to stop it from entwining me. For two seconds I was the fourth stooge wrestling with a fish.

I chuckled, then retrieved my new book and blew dust from it. Residue from a fresh hole in the dining room ceiling, where a light had hung before lunchtime, blanketed the few objects around me. Nothing in the classic I held could be more novel than life with a wild, do-it-yourselfer.

Marie Gilbert, my friend, fellow writer and cohort chats with me about everything. She agreed to a blog interview so I can share her amazing personality and interests with you. Oh, and she's also just published a book.

Dawn: You've enlightened me about zombies in that the idea of the undead symbolize something possible in reality. Could you explain a little about this?

Marie: I love writing about zombies because I believe they represent us for several reasons. I sometimes feel that people believe what they read or hear in the news without checking out the facts. We are letting other people do our thinking for us. Just because it’s on the internet doesn’t make it true. Anyone can put a spin on a story to make it look interesting, but we should check it out and when we don’t, we’re no better than a mindless zombie.

We are what we eat. We are eating food that is bad for us. There is no getting around this. It was proven that the tobacco companies put addictive chemicals into cigarettes to get people hooked, and now, companies are doing this with our food, especially with processed food. I have an overly active imagination and I asked myself, “What if the government could control our minds via chemicals added to our food?” Is it possible? The meats we buy already have hormones and antibiotics added; the next step would be so easy. This was one of the ways that ‘The Leader’ in my book, Roof Oasis, created his army of mindless slaves.

I do a lot of research before writing a story. I’ve become very involved with organizations that are trying to make people aware of the consequences of pollution, fracking, GMO’s and how these things have an effect on living organisms. I’m a big fan of NASA and Space X and believe that life does exist on other worlds. In my book, I use a wormhole for Razhep to travel to our world. Is this possible? Why not? NASA is already planning for ‘faster than light’ space travel. I think we will see this sometime in the future.

Dawn: When is the second book in your trilogy due out? Your final book in this series?

Marie: I’m hoping to get the second book of the series, Saving Solanda, out by next summer and then jump into the third and maybe fourth book of the series. I’m also hoping to get my Life with Fred and Lucy stories published within the next two years. I’ve accumulated a lot of fans from South Philadelphia, and surprisingly, from around the world that not only love reading the adventures of my dysfunctional family, but also tell me that my stories remind them of their childhood. I’m also working on a ghost story based on one of my investigations and a story about vampires.

Dawn: You're the South Jersey's Writers' Group's promotional person organizing book signings for the groups' anthologies, "Tall Tales and Short Stories from South Jersey" and "Reading Glasses." You also promote other authors' works from this group. How does it feel to have a book of your own to promote after two years of promoting the group and others works?

Forgot to post this:
Sunday Marie Gilbert, Ava Jordanna Easterby and I were at Rosemont College for their book festival. Lovely day and beautiful grounds. Only sold one book, but met plenty other writers and small business owners. Thanks to Ava for driving. Marie, you're the best.

Marie: This past year has been one hell of an adventure that I wouldn’t trade for anything. I’ve had so much fun promoting via blogs and book signings. Dawn Byrne and I travel all over the place doing book signings, and because of these trips, we have met some amazing people; some alive some not. Poor Dawn has had to suffer through my impromptu investigation on several of our outings, but that’s okay, Dawn still likes me and we haven’t taken home any unwanted guests.

I’ve done several interviews for the South Jersey Writers Blog on the members of our group and also on the coffee shops and book stores that allowed us to do a book signing. People began to hear about our group and the group has grown since our anthologies were published.

Through my connections with Steampunk and ghost investigations, I’ve made many friends and have done many interviews, some for my blog http://gilbertcuriosities.blogspot.com and some for Biff Bam Pop, a pop culture website extraordinaire www.biffbampop.com I love writing for Biff Bam Pop and working for Andy Burns was instrumental in my growth as a writer.

This past year, I had the pleasure of interviewing Film Director, Chris Eilenstine for the independent film, The Soulless. We became friends and I was invited to the private screening and the premier of the film, which I wrote about for Biff Bam Pop. Chris had ordered Roof Oasis from Amazon and was so pleased with my book, that he asked me to be part of his writing team that will be writing the bible for the television series. I am so excited.

I love interviewing people. I want to learn about them and their work, and I want to know what inspires them to reach for the stars. But, when it comes to me being asked the questions, I freeze. I’m fine talking about me in the Fred and Lucy Episodes, or when I’m explaining what goes on during an investigation, but to be out in the open for an interview feels strange. I’ll have to get used to this.

Thank you Dawn for taking the time to interview me and asking where I got my inspiration for Roof Oasis, my apocalyptic tale with a twist. Dawn and I will be out and about promoting the South Jersey Writers’ Group, Tall Tales and Short Stories from South Jersey, Reading Glasses and Roof Oasis. Come up and say hello to us.

Dawn: Thank you, Marie, for sharing your fun and informative self with us. I love going on the road with you and meeting more people than meets my eyes.

For more interviews of Marie, see: www.kevinstephany.wordpress.com, and www.lorettasisco.com.

Minutes after 4, I rushed through the front door. I started dinner, added fresh water to the dog's bowl and threw laundry into the washer. My three youngest children set out their homework on our dining room table. I bounced from food preparation to assignment monitor.

Playing this crazy game of back and forth got old, as old as I felt that day. Priscilla, my pre-teen, walked into the kitchen from her after-school activity. The dog greeted her by tripping me on one of my returns to the stove.

"Get this dog from under my feet. She's gonna kill me yet. Her hair's everywhere, and I'm sick of her smelling up the yard."

The reverberation of my voice stopped, and the house's stillness shocked me. Priscilla stared wide-eyed, still wearing her jacket. Seeing her frightened face, I knew she wanted to say something, but couldn't. Coming home after her extended day to a ranting mother had stunned her.

Thinking this could scar her for life, I broke down crying. "I'm sorry. You just came through the door. I shouldn't have jumped on you. Who would want to come home to that?"

We hugged, and I refocused. It wasn't just the dog. Working in a preschool classroom all day and trying to keep things from falling apart at home had frazzled me. I needed to make a change, so I started with the dog.

Priscilla had come to the age where being the mommy of a dog had lost its glamour. Other things had taken her attention from Sprinkles. But the hyper springer spaniel was a part of our family and giving her away could cause emotional damage to the children and, I had to admit, me.

My outburst had humbled me enough to see that troubleshooting this problem wasn't as difficult as I had expected. Back in tune with reality, I noticed our son had slipped into the role my daughter had as Sprinkles' closest buddy.

Once our family officially acknowledged my son as doggie's daddy, he took pride in feeding and walking Sprinkles without reminders. The walks also helped with both their extra energies.

I worried that Priscilla would be hurt or jealous of this change in family status. She seemed relieved though, watching Sprinkles leap with excitement as Forest jiggled her leash. Priscilla's furry friendship had transformed to pet. Just pet. A hint that she was growing up.

Me too. I admitted to myself that a mature mother didn't have to function alone with household duties. I can look for growth in myself to accept help from a capable child. Part of my job as a parent is to look for progress in my children and tap new abilities as they develop before my eyes. My hope for them is to realize how important their efforts are in our shared life.

So when issues arise, and I sense discord in myself, I see my daughter's fearful face that day in the kitchen. This reminds me to step back and explore why I'm feeling so overwhelmed. Usually it's a need for new rotation of chores, growth that needs more inclusion, or maybe just fatigue. Even supermoms who love dogs can accept help from children.

Half a century of life must be celebrated big. So, reaching this ancient of days, I cautioned my husband: No Party. Selfishly, I wanted all Joe's money and time spent on me, even refusing to travel; that would take his time and resources from this birthday girl too. So we drove over the Betsy Ross Bridge and twenty minutes to a swanky hotel in Center City Philadelphia.

“Is this your first time in Philadelphia?” the woman at the check-in desk inquired.

“We were born and raised here. This is our first time in a five star hotel,” I aswered. She smiled and gave us the lowdown about a breakfast package that included wifi accessability. Turns out, breakfast was the most enjoyable and impressive part of the hotel.

Disappointment set in when I saw how compact our room was, with no double shower or heart-shaped bathtub like in the motels and travel lodges I was used to. Peering back at New Jersey from our panoramic 20^th floor window, I wished we had booked over there at the Inn of the Dove.

The portable closet with a safe, full-sized iron and ironing board, wooden coat hangers and dry cleaning bags made it clear the room was for a high-end business person who traveled. I'm still curious why the monstrous closet smelled like cherry candy. A draft bolster hung from one of the coat hangers. With our room so high in the building, this didn't make sense. Until we found in the desk, ear plugs and instructions for light sleepers on how to block out the light under the door and sound.

With all the accommodations for a peaceful night's sleep, I wondered what was in the closet or drawer to help when our headboard began bumping from the other side. This transported me back to when we lived in a thin-walled rowhouse. I didn't mind the disturbance so much after dinner the night before, but at 3:20am I just had to ride it out, remembering it wouldn't continue for long before the shower on the opposite side of ours started running.

On my first trip to our bathroom, I had found banding around the bathroom mat hanging off and the rubber underneath it with chunks missing. Nit-picking began: a hand towel sported a wear spot; the refrigerator couldn't have been smaller; I doubted the bed we slept in was king-sized. We were used to a full-size, but enjoyed king-size when away from home. I asked the friendly housekeeper about the bed but she didn't know for sure since they used only flat sheets to make the beds. A tag on the mattress said it was manufactured on April 10, 2006.

Big city parking naturally has challenges. One upside of staying at a luxury hotel is its parking garage. We paid $30.00 a day to self-park because no one drives my husband's truck. He made the parking attendant promise that we could come and go throughout our stay. Of course. That's how it works for guests like us, business guests, the two brides we saw posing for photos that weekend, and their individual guests.

After a tour of the city's awesome outside murals, a visit to the Rosenbach Museum, and a stroll on the famous South Street, we wandered the cozy side streets and wondered at the imposing two and three-story row houses.

Ready to rest, we pulled up to the hotel's garage. A standing board obstructed the entrance. It said: “Valet Parking Only.” This was the only entrance to the garage. A museum parking lot across from the hotel's was barred with a notice saying it was full.

We enquired about this to the valet director in tails, a flat hat and a whistle, standing at the entrance to the hotel. He apologized and told us to drive back around to the garage, and that he'd radio for the attendant to allow us in. So we did, but found a different board that said: “Parking Lot Full.” The attendant there said, “The only thing I can tell you is to have them valet park your truck. You'll need a large space for it.”

“But we already paid to self-park. We're guests at the hotel.” I waved the ticket Joe paid $60.00 for to park in the garage for the weekend.

The attendant said, “Have them valet park your vehicle. Sorry, that's all I can tell you.”

Once again, we drove to the entrance of the hotel and explained to the whistle and tails guy. He said, “Park in the museum lot.”

“It's full,” my husband and I said in unison.

I added, “We're guests here and have been out all day. I just want to get back to our room. The attendant at the garage suggested we valet park our truck, but I don't want to pay the extra $10.00 since we already paid to self-park.”

The valet couldn't promise we'd be spared the extra expense. He told us to pull up and leave the key in the truck. Joe grumbled, pulling off his truck key from among the rest on his ring. “They better know how to drive this truck.” I think he expected the hotel to contact us and say something happened while parking his vehicle. After a brisk night walk, he calmed down. Until we checked out.

“Hi. We're checking out, but had to have our truck valet parked because there wasn't room in the garage. I don't want to pay the extra fee.” I spoke pleasantly with a tinge of no-nonsense.

It was a different woman at check-out than from check-in. “We're aware of the problem. Please give me your ticket and I'll have them pull your car around.”

Lugging luggage, we waited outside for our truck to drive around the circular driveway in which only two vehicles could pass abreast. One of the brides, now in white ballet shoes and jeans, leaned on a baggage cart draped with a wedding gown and stacked with gifts. Other exiting guests joined us as car after cab circled the drive slowly in single file around two cars and the hotel bus partially blocking one lane.

Then came the longest limousine that Joe, who works in the fair city, and I had ever seen. Our crowd on the sidewalk outside the hotel gasped as the thing's turn signal blinked and its nose began turning into the crowded circle. It braked and the signal stopped flicking, but the guy in tails stopped the limo from leaving.

“Come on, come on, bring it in.” He whistled and waved. Tension built as the long, white monster car backed up, turned, pulled forward, backed up, pulled forward, following the whistler's instructions around the parked cars and curb of the circle. Everyone sighed with relief as it made the turn unscratched.

Joe spied his truck and fidgeted faster than the previous forty minutes. The circling vehicles sludged along. A red car blocked one exit lane now. The hat and whistle guy said he didn't have the key to it in response to a valet driver running back and forth from the hotel garage.

A young attendant yelled instructions from Joe's truck window to the hotel bus driver to move the bus forward. He signaled other valets, attempting to get thing moving. My husband grabbed our laundry bag from me and stepped towards his stuck truck. I refused to go, worried that his impatience in that line of cars would cause damage. He stopped and growled.

Then the lily white limo parked next to the red car, totally cutting off exiting vehicles. Our crowd on the sidewalk gasped again, wondering how our vehicles were going to reach us.

The young attendant finally got out of the truck and held up the keys. I hailed him and Joe took the laundry and his key. Then the circle cleared, starting with the red car. I think my husband was so glad to get his truck back, that he passed the smaller vehicles and great white limo without incident.

“Do you want to go to the shore?” he asked.

I didn't. “Sure.”

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Marvelous Marie Gilbert

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