Lickety-Split

My dad’s mom was a fiery little Englishwoman. Standing four feet tall and spanning four feet from hip to hip, Grandma could barely fit on the piano bench with her dog, Buster.

Through an odd twist of fate, her immense bottom was complemented with an itty-bitty turned-up nose that fit her humpty-dumpty face like a raisin in the center of a crop circle. She was blessed with bright blue eyes, a milky white complexion, and grandmotherly pearly white hair.

Grandma was peculiar. To compensate for weightiness, or perhaps a lack of sense, she developed quirky behavior to match her quirky features.

The minute we’d come to visit, she would whine a hypocritical story: Jesus saved this and Jesus did that and those rotten neighbors should be…(you can imagine). Then she’d run into the living room of her ancient little farmhouse with high ceilings and start playing “Bringing in the Sheaves,” Buster at her side, howling while she sang.

Even in her later years, Grandma and Buster would entertain elders at the nursing home where she eventually lived, acting like the only child among those her own age. People loved it. She was funny, perpetually grinning, and lively, moving her shoulders left to right as she performed.

She lived a few miles from town where the nursing home and her church were. The Assembly of God was Grandma’s second home, so she could almost do the drive in her sleep. She’d open the car door, jump up on her pillow in the driver’s seat so she could see out the windshield, and go “lickety-split,” as she’d say, into town and back.

Yep lickety-split was the way she did a lot of things. She was a quick one. And dramatic.

On her way home from church one Wednesday night, she jumped up on her pillow and headed for home. Halfway there, she looked into her rearview mirror and saw a car tailing hers. Scared, she sped up.

The more she stepped on the gas, the faster her pursuer drove. It almost looked as if the car had red flashing lights on it, which made her panic. She probably thought Satan had sent one of his angels to thank her for saying bad things about the neighbors. She kicked it up another notch. Lickety-split, she drove like greased lightning.

Finally, she swerved into her driveway, stopped the car, and was ready to run into her house and lock the door, when a policeman walked beside her car.

“Officer!” cried Grandma. “Someone was chasing me, so I drove home as fast as I could!”

“Mm-hmm.” As the policeman wrote out her speeding ticket, Grandma acted as if she were having a heart attack. He politely walked her into her house—and handed her the lickety-ticket, quick.

(Puzzle piece number 38 of 38.)

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Violated

(Puzzle piece number 15 of 38.)
Something strange and scary happened yesterday, a Sunday. My daughter and I finally went out, had lunch, and shot pool. That’s strange in itself, because we’ve been extremely conservative and boring this summer.

The scary part was coming home. Our alarm had been disarmed, and my daughter found our chef’s knife lying on the kitchen floor.

Stupidly, she and I searched the entire house. It appeared that no doors or windows had been entered in the main two levels of the house. In the lower level were our Lab and two cats, one of which would have taken a serious bite out of crime had he been given the chance. But he hadn’t. He was blocked by a loosely hung door between the upstairs hallway and stairs that descend to our lower level. When the door is bumped, it bangs against its frame and makes an abrupt, jarring noise—enough to scare anyone out of the house. And we’re presuming that is why no one was in the house when we arrived.

After the initial shock, I realized I’d lost my reading glasses downtown and was on the phone trying to locate them. My daughter was in her room changing clothes. I then called the friend we had just played pool with to tell him about our experience, when suddenly my daughter shrieked and ran toward me, face flushed, frightened like I’d never seen before.

“Mom! Man!” she screamed. I immediately thought he was in our house, so I flew out the door expecting her to follow as I abruptly ended my phone conversation. I couldn’t understand why she headed in a different direction, until I saw she’d put her shoes on. “He’s on the side of the house!” she screamed, and proceeded to chase the guy! I immediately dialed 911, ran after my daughter, explained our emergency to the operator, then had my daughter describe the offender she saw standing outside her window.

Within about four minutes, four police cars were in front of our home, and my friend, who flew from across town to help, reported that two more police cars were on the adjacent street. We explained to three of the officers where the guy had run, and within four minutes, one officer ran for his car, which he mounted like his steed and drove at about 50 on our 20-mile-per-hour street.

Two officers saw the guy and chased him into a large field two blocks away, then lost him amidst some cattails and possibly into an apartment. Within another 10 to 15 minutes, the police had CSPD K-9 dog unit searching the area.

By 8 p.m. it was starting to get dark. The two officers who had seen the thug left the other officer to take info for the report. We deduced that the criminal had scaled a back wall with the help of a children’s swimming pool and entered through an open garage window 10 feet up. Like too many homeowners, the door between the garage and house was not locked.

We feel violated, trapped in a way. Does this mean we can’t keep our windows open? Do we have to stay home and guard our house like a dog would—if his owners don’t cordon him off from a particular area? Must we be hypervigilant about locking our doors, about whom we open our doors to?

Apparently.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
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It’s Who You Know

(Puzzle piece number 13 of 38.)
When I was in college, I dated a poli sci graduate named Paul, who served with our university’s campus security. Those were the days when Brian “Kato” Kaelin and the Killer Cushman raced across the University of Wisconsin–Eau Claire footbridge. Then in 1994, O.J. Simpson boosted Kato’s visibility.

My friend Paul was a kick. Highly intelligent and articulate, he loved a good party and made life the best adventure. He’d write notes to me that led me to the dictionary. He engaged me with deep questions that only years later could I answer, such as “What are you doing later?”

Paul was a member, maybe even the instigator, of a fraternity called Phelta Thi. I caught on to that name right away, though Paul was always a gentleman. One day he called to say that he and his roommates were going to throw a beach party. “We’ll be playing Beach Boys tunes, wearing Hawaiian shirts, and we’re having a truckload of sand hauled in, so we can play volleyball between the houses.”

True to his word, all components pulled together to create a fabulous event. That night, to the guys’ excitement and the girls’ horror, a bat flew into the house, which the guys brought down with a tennis racket and threw into Paul’s snake’s aquarium. The sight of the snake eating that bat still gives me the willies.

Years passed, I moved to Colorado, and new lives ensued. Then one summer, maybe 17 years later, I flew back to Eau Claire for a visit. My former client–friend with whom I was staying loaned me a car and away I drove, exploring my old city.

I must have looked like a codfish, mouth agape at all the development. In my amazement, I stepped on the accelerator and quickly soaked in the surreal changes as they flew past my window.

Pulling me abruptly back to reality, a siren sounded behind me. Discovering the brake, I went from 50 to zero in record time. The young officer, about my age, announced my speed and how different it was from the posted limit. He asked me to present my driver’s license and registration, which further shocked me into reality. Do I even have them?

“Well,” I tensely began. “I don’t live here. This isn’t my car, and I don’t know where the registration would be. But here’s my name, which is different from what it used to be when I lived here.”

The officer raised his eyebrows and walked back to his cruiser without a smile. I started seeing bars—and I don’t mean the ones on Water Street.

About four minutes later, he returned to my side with a smile, which prompted me to scoot right a bit. “You’re clear,” he said. “I’m going to let you go without a ticket. And Paul says hi. He’s investigating a robbery, or he’d come to see you.”

A whoosh of relief coursed through my body, and I quickly sped away.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/06/its-who-you-know.html