The Invisible Sister

Eleven years ago today I lost my oldest brother. Rich was only 55 years old, retired for barely a year from his career as a Denver police officer. Diagnosed with cancer in January, he endured a difficult surgery and grueling treatments. But it was too late. In June the doctors told him he had about two months to live.

Rich was 14 years older than me, the only child of my father’s first marriage. Unusual for the 1940s, dad was awarded custody. Later dad met mom and they created our little family.

The age difference between Rich and me made our relationship challenging. By the time I was eight, he had graduated high school, joined the military, served in Japan and Hawaii, returned home, and was married with a child on the way. It was more than our age difference, though. We were like oil and water. He was brash and abrasive, a teller of tall tales who craved the spotlight, loved to argue, and especially loved to win arguments. I was a quiet, shy, sensitive soul with no debating skills. My family was conservative; I was the peace loving flower child with liberal notions and a completely different way of looking at the world. This made me an easy target. Rich took delight in ridiculing my beliefs. As time passed I found it easier to simply withdraw from most conversations, keeping my ideals intact even as I grew weary of defending them. The fact that I never married or had children also set me apart. I was too different, too hard to understand. Eventually I became invisible.

Rich had another half-sister several years older than me. Patty and Rich shared the same mother, Ida. When Ida passed away, Rich took custody of his teenaged sister. Patty was a sweet, kind, pretty girl. Everyone loved her. In a few years’ time she finished school, married, and moved to Las Vegas to start her own family. Rich visited her frequently and she returned to Colorado on a regular basis.

My brother lived a full, active life. He was adventurous, always into something, and had friends galore. A whirlwind of people constantly surrounded him at his many parties at home, at his cabin on Johnson Lake in Nebraska, or at his trailer near Elephant Butte Lake in New Mexico. I learned this from the tales my family told me, since they usually attended. Once I was asked why I was never at Rich’s parties, never had joined them on road trips to the cabin or the trailer. That was easy to answer. I was never invited.

Naturally, a grand party was planned at Rich’s house following his memorial service. So many people were there, yet I only knew a tiny fraction of them. As the evening wore on, I staked out a quiet location in the living room where I took solace in the company of my brother’s dogs. A line had formed to the bathroom, and one fellow standing in that line asked who I was, how did I know Rich? I answered that I was his sister, Debbie. He looked puzzled. Then he said to me, well, everyone knows Patty, but he never heard that Rich had another sister. Was I from somewhere else? I was devastated.

After that conversation, I went to the dining room where a collage of photos had been assembled on a giant bulletin board to memorialize Rich’s life. As I pored through the photos, I saw the faces of people living and dead, every conceivable connection you could imagine: grandparents, parents, children, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, cars, dogs, boats. I searched but could not find my face anywhere. Finally I realized only three key people were missing from the collection: Rich’s two former wives, and me.

That last summer of his life I visited Rich every weekend, and cared for his dogs while his wife took him to see the ocean one last time. Every time I left his side, I reached out to hug and kiss my brother and always said “I love you.” Each time he turned his face away from my kiss; not once did he respond to my declaration.

The day before he died I spent the afternoon with Rich, giving his wife a break. I joined him on the bed and we watched TV, a documentary about the sinking of the Lusitania. He commented during a commercial for paper shredders, saying he really needed to get one of those. And he told me he kept seeing lights, did I see them too? I shook my head, no. When I left, I leaned over to hug and kiss him. This time he didn’t turn away. When I said, “I love you,” he answered, “I love you too.” For the first time, and the last.

So in the end, what did it matter that a complete stranger didn’t know that Rich had two sisters? Neither did it matter that my photo was not displayed on the memorabilia board. Because at long last, I finally had the answer to something I never dared believe was possible. My brother did love me after all.

Home Away From Home

On our way home from a Colorado weekend trip years ago, I suggested to Dave that we stop in Salida, a town I had visited once and enjoyed. At first he didn’t like it. But with each visit, the place started to grow on him. The first time we stayed in Salida was the year we were married. Dave was hooked. Our trips there have since become an annual ritual, a home base for touring south central and southwestern Colorado. This year the plan was to take a leisurely drive to Salida on Friday, then spend the next day on a visit to Tincup, a ghost town south of Taylor Park.

At mid morning on Saturday we reached the summit of Cottonwood Pass, elevation 12,126. We began what was to be a brief hike on the Continental Divide Trail when we noticed three people returning from the summit of a nearby mountain. I bet you can get amazing views of Taylor Park from up there, I told Dave. Off we went.

At that altitude it’s pretty slow going. Tonka seemed unfazed as he dragged Dave up the trail ahead of me. Being the weakest link, I typically bring up the rear. I used my frequent “oxygen breaks” to ponder the views and take a snapshot here or there, admiring the resilient alpine tundra flowers, even trying to follow a ptarmigan Tonka had discovered hidden among the rocks. When we reached the summit, a fierce west wind smacked us right in the face. Despite that, the views were stunning. We returned to the car tired but pleased.

We had no idea that Taylor Park is a sort of Mecca for ATV enthusiasts. The road to Tincup was packed with them. We were clearly outnumbered by dozens of ATVs and dirt bikes. Their loud engine noise filled the air. In Tincup, I took a quick photo of the town hall as several ATVs zoomed past. We piled back into the car and left without exploring a thing. On the south side of Cumberland Pass we spied a few decrepit log cabins near an abandoned mine and decided to have our picnic lunch there. I wondered aloud, what must it have been like to live here in the 1800s? Just then two ATVs went screaming by. Dave gave his usual calm, stoic response, “It was probably a lot quieter.”

The drive back to our home away from home was peaceful. I enjoyed looking out the window at the lovely farms and ranches along the way. That lush, fertile river bottom land feeds numerous beaver ponds but also provides sustenance for generations of the same families. Everywhere you looked, farmers were mowing and bundling hay, preparing for the winter to come.

Each afternoon in Salida we brought Tonka to the Arkansas River to play in the water, then took advantage of the makeshift doggy “hitching post” at Bongo Billy’s so we could sip a couple of beers on the deck. Saturday night we ordered our favorite Moonlight Pizza and returned to our room at the Aspen Leaf Lodge, a funky flat-roof motel on Highway 50, doors painted a pretty pink. The owners are friendly people, plus they always give us the room on the end, quiet and private.

The first morning I took Tonka for a long walk in the Little River valley. Along the way we surprised a nervous mule deer doe with her twin fawns. In a second pasture we encountered two curious young bucks. The morning light on Mount Shavano was beautiful. Why didn’t I bring my camera? I hurriedly returned to the motel, grabbed the camera, and drove back. But the moment was lost, the light too bright, the deer long gone.

The second morning I woke before dawn and took Tonka outside. Such stars in the sky! Starlight has all but disappeared in the city, so it almost felt as if I were seeing it again for the first time. I opened the windows and crawled back into bed. Dave was stirring awake. “You should go outside and look at the stars,” I suggested, followed by, “Do you hear that?” “Hear what?” was Dave’s reply. “Nothing… absolutely nothing.” The silence was nearly as beautiful as the stars.

Salida figures prominently into our more optimistic retirement dreams. Now each time we leave Salida, it is with a tinge of sadness. We take one last cruise down Main Street, another look at the golf course, then we drive slowly through the neighborhoods, assessing the homes and lots for sale, collecting brochures. Everywhere you pass, the people wave. It’s like they already know us, already recognize us. It’s not our home, yet we feel so much at home.

Maybe next year.

Maybe someday.

Diary of a Mad Insomniac

Insomnia has been my faithful nighttime companion for the past several years. What began as a result of stress has morphed into a hormonal Olympic event. Oh I knew it was coming, the sheer joy of womanhood in those middle years. Never did I count on insomnia being part of the equation. Summertime insomnia is my favorite, windows open wide, inviting more mental distractions to the sleepless dance.

8:24 PM – Exhausted. Let me finish watching this show first. Fast asleep by 9 PM.

10:57 PM – Guess I shouldn’t have kept drinking all that water, time for a trip to the bathroom.

11:08 PM – Symphonic snoring in stereo: Raven on the floor to my left, Dave on the bed to my right. Mercifully Tonka doesn’t snore (yet). With twitching paws scratching against the floor, at this moment he is living a marvelous squirrel-chasing dream. Can’t believe how jealous I feel. I used to have wonderful dreams but I don’t dream much any more. Not usually asleep long enough for a good one to take hold.

12:15 AM – Whoa, I’m on fire! My own personal summer forces me up and out to where the windows let in more of that cool night air I so desperately need. I sprawl across the couch, furiously fanning the mysterious internal flame, nightgown of tiny pink flowers and lace flapping above me. I must look like a crazy old woman. The dogs join me, savoring the cool air. They don't seem to care about the crazy part. Afterwards I return to bed and wonder, why on earth am I cold now? I pull up the covers and curl into a ball.

1:54 AM – Do I hear Raven in the living room, struggling to get up? Hope she’s okay. Tears fill my eyes as I realize how quickly her health is deteriorating. Clickety click clickety click, slap slap slap, there she goes out the doggy door. Another slap slap slap and there goes Tonka the caboose, following behind.

2:01 AM – Two more identical series of the slap slap slap doggy door rhythm and here come the dogs back inside. Slurp slurp slurp slurp slurp in the water bowl, a lumbering clickety click clickety click up the hall, then it's back to sleep for Raven. She collapses on the floor next to me with a loud sigh as I reach down to stroke her thick fur. Oh geez, more tears. Old lady dog snoring resumes. Tonka has claimed the couch.

3:12 AM – A wet nose nudges me awake. Tonka wants some snuggle time so I invite him up on the bed. Amazing, how can such a little dog take up so much space? I tug and pull at the blankets and fluff the pillow, hoping to convince myself that I will be falling asleep real soon.

3:20 AM – Here comes the train, northbound on the tracks, horn blaring out an audible type of Morse code: two mediums, one short, one long, chug chug chug chug chug. First it crosses Lowell then 72nd then 80th, horns howling in repetition at each intersection. The still night air makes it sound much closer than it is. I hear the squeal of metal on metal and try to guess how long the train is. After 80th the tracks turn westward. I listen as it crosses 88th then Pierce then Wadsworth and keep listening until it becomes nothing more than a mournful sound in the distance. Wonder where they’re headed? Wyoming.

3:45 AM – Song lyrics drift around in my head, a silent jumbled lullaby for another sleepless night. I lay staring out the bedroom window and see headlights illuminating the neighbor’s house. A car speeds up, slows down, SMACK! … fast, slow … SMACK! … newspaper delivery time.

4:14 AM – I take one last peek at the clock and turn away from the glowing red light, wondering what this new day has in store.

4:56 AM – Dave is up, lights are on in the kitchen. I stumble out for coffee, grumbling about being so tired, about lack of sleep. “You were sleeping pretty soundly when I woke up,” he exclaims. His golden slumber keeps him blissfully removed from the secret nighttime world I share with the dogs. Part of that rock 'n' roll lullaby remains in my head the rest of the day:

And when the morning light comes streaming in,
I'll get up and do it again.

Humifidy

Humifidy. Yes, I know it’s not a real word, except within my immediate family. The word was invented quite by accident during a trip to the Los Angeles area some 25 years ago with my brother and his wife. Seems I was complaining about the dampness of the sea air and said something along the lines of “...all this humifidy!” Becky never let me forget that little blooper. Lately the word has been stuck in my head.

Over the past couple of months we have experienced unusually wet, humid conditions better suited to the Pacific Northwest than the high desert. Most Coloradoans are well adapted to our climate and can tolerate the summer heat, for the most part, because it's what we lovingly refer to as “a dry heat.” But when the weather switches around on us, like this spring, some of us old-timers get a little cranky.

Recently I have been returning from my morning walks with hair that reminds me of Gilda Radner’s Saturday Night Live character, Roseanne Roseannadanna. Normally my hair is straight. Nowadays, after less than an hour in the Colorado early morning air, it’s curly, wavy, frizzy, and sticks right out to the side. I realize the mass of gray hair reproducing at an alarming rate among my normal locks contributes to some of the thick, frizzy texture. The rest is the work of humifidy.

Yesterday after walking, I jumped in the shower then proceeded to get ready for work. It was a blur of normal workday morning activities: making breakfast, packing a lunch, loading the dishwasher, etc. As I was brushing my teeth, I noticed my forehead beading up with sweat. Next thing you know, the sweat started running down both sides of my face, much like what happens during a hard day’s labor in the yard. Brushing your teeth, with an electric toothbrush no less, is not exactly an aerobic activity. It must have been caused by humifidy. So I checked online and discovered the humifidy was a whopping 82%!

Sometime during July is when we have our Colorado "monsoon" season. It typically offers a welcome relief from the perpetual dry weather and unrelenting heat. We really look forward to those afternoon thunderstorms. This year I find myself looking forward to some dryness as a welcome relief from the perpetual rainstorms and unrelenting humifidy.

Until the dry air returns, I will be reminiscing about our visit a year ago last April to the desert southwest, a place where humifidy in the single digits is common and where you might encounter lizards baking themselves in the scorching hot desert sun.

A friend sent me an email a while back entitled, “You know you’re from Colorado if…” For the sake of brevity, I’ll just quote the relevant bits about humifidy.

You know you’re from Colorado if—

• “Humid” is anything over 25%
• You go anywhere else on the planet and the air feels “sticky”

Funny, I don’t remember moving to another location on the planet.

A Middle-Aged Neighborhood

With a young and energetic dog in our midst again, I have forced myself back into a regular walking routine. I became lazy over the past few years. My exercise buddy Raven, our senior dog, had surgery on her leg at about the same time my middle-aged motivation began to wane. Good exercise aside, walking Tonka has also given me a chance to become reacquainted with our little corner of suburbia.

Built in the 1950s, the neighborhood where we live is also middle-aged. Here you find small brick ranch homes situated one after the other on a predictable grid. The developers chose typical suburban street names, one area using only the letter “C” (Cedar, Cherry, Concord, Crescent) and another named after colleges (Auburn, Baylor, Princeton, Rutgers).

When my parents moved from New Jersey to Colorado in 1958, we bunked for a few months in my uncle’s basement just one block east of here. That isn't the reason I chose this area. Instead, a mixed bag of issues related to selling my townhouse and purchasing a single-family home all seemed to converge in this one place.

One of my preferences was to live in an older, established neighborhood. I was ready for some space to dig in and get my hands dirty and boy, did they ever get dirty. A former rental, this house had been neglected for quite some time but I could tell it had good bones. Over the past 14 years it has been transformed from one of the neighborhood dregs to a place that shines with pride of ownership. My early jaunts up and down these suburban streets provided inspiration for home improvement and decorating ideas, as well as guidance about what not to do.

For instance, there is a home a few blocks from here with trim painted a lively Pepto-Bismol pink. Another house sports an ample front porch constructed in thick, beefy craftsman style, not exactly a good match for a mid-century modern brick ranch but otherwise nicely done. At the bottom of the hill someone added a second story over a small, enclosed carport. It looks as if a narrow trailer dropped right out of the sky and landed neatly on top. They painted the second story a mustard color to boot, just in case you didn’t notice the unusual architecture all by itself.

Up near the school live the Denver Broncos fans, complete with “Broncos Fan Parking Only” signs, blue and orange artificial flowers planted in the pots, and a blue lighthouse bedecked with the Broncos logo. A few blocks west a series of separate houses display first an extensive collection of cheerful garden gnomes, then plastic deer cavorting in the yard, then snarling cement lions guarding a front entrance, and finally a flock of pink flamingos looking hopelessly lost and thirsty in this city on the high plains.

We also have more than our fair share of foreclosed homes. You can tell right off, knee-high vegetation in the yard, legal notices stuck to the windows, a sad story behind each door.

Then there is the mystery house, unkempt, curtains perpetually drawn, weeds growing defiantly in an all-rock front yard designed to suppress weeds. On the roof is a large cross, illuminated with white Christmas lights, and three trumpeting angels next to a hand painted wooden sign proclaiming, in blood red paint, “I AM COM…” The final section of wood seems to have broken off but the message is still clear. For me, the house evokes a Stephen King story, Carrie.

My brother and his family live in one of the newer suburbs south of Denver, a community with restrictive covenants. The homes are beautiful, the yards immaculate, but there is a sameness, a planned, safe, boring repetition to it all. Maybe someday I too will choose such a lifestyle. For now, I prefer to dwell among the thirsty flamingos, the Carrie house, and the second story addition that fell from the sky. All these places are interesting in their own way. Together they help define the collective character of our middle-aged neighborhood.

A Haunting Tale

In 1998, my eldest brother Rich was diagnosed with cancer. At the same time, my mother’s health began to take a turn for the worse. She had suffered health problems for quite some time and this particular year she became even more helpless. Dad tried his darnedest to care for her as long as he could. Rich died in late August, less than six weeks before my mother’s death in early October.

My brother Ted and I worried so much about dad. Losing a child is something no parent expects or should ever have to go through, no matter the age. The loss of his wife compounded dad’s agony. She had been his rock, his home, for the better part of his life. Ted and I later revealed that we both secretly felt it would not be much longer until dad joined his beloved wife and son.

Dad had never lived alone. He moved from his parents’ home, to the Civilian Conservation Corps, to his first marriage with Rich’s mother, to the Army infantry in the Philippines during World War II, to a painful divorce and back home with his parents who helped raise his son, then later to his second marriage with my mother. Now he was left to wander an empty house. Dad found the silence, the loneliness, and the profound grief to be overwhelming at times.

Then one day, dad told us a story. It was the middle of the night and as typical, he was reading a book. Mom’s room was next door, a small private room where she kept a desk and an antique maple twin bed. You know the kind, with heavy iron bed rails and four wooden slats spaced evenly apart to support the box spring and mattress. Well that night dad heard a loud “bang” coming from mom’s room. He instinctively called out to the dark house: “Loretta, is that you?”

The next morning dad discovered that one of the slats had fallen out of mom’s bed, as they often did. But in the past this only happened when someone sat on the bed, or possibly when the bed’s occupant turned over while sleeping. Dad was convinced mom had returned.

Over the next several months, he related stories of his experiences in the house. Once he was whittling in the basement when he was sure someone stood right behind him, watching his work. Another time he swore he heard voices. He repeatedly sensed at least one and sometimes two presences in the house. “Makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up,” he told me. At first he was frightened, then he began to engage in one-sided conversations with the visitors. Was there anyone in the house with dad? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter one bit. Real or imagined, dad was comforted by the idea of his wife and son returning to him. He lived another six years, all alone in that house, during which time he spoke to mom and Rich frequently. He was absolutely convinced of their presence.

A few months before dad died, he passed out while shopping at the grocery store. The paramedics took him to the emergency room and I was called to his side. Dad always hated hospitals and had no use for all the fussing and carrying on that occurred in those places. The emergency room doctor said she would be willing to discharge him, provided there would be someone at home with him that night. Dad replied without hesitation: “My wife is there!” Although I knew there was no physical presence in the house, as the doctor expected, I said nothing. My mother’s spiritual presence was good enough for dad; it got him released.

One of my family duties, something mom and I shared in years past, was the responsibility of caring for family graves. After mom died, I visited Fort Logan National Cemetery regularly to bring flowers and decorations. At that cemetery are buried my grandfather, an uncle, my brother, my mother, and now my father too. Before dad died, whenever I visited mom’s grave I talked to her, often blubbering away as I conveyed stories of the events in our lives, both good and bad. Like dad, I believed her spirit was right there with me. Yet not once since dad has been gone have I felt that presence at the cemetery, or anywhere else for that matter. Once they were reunited, I’m certain they left this Earth together. Their grave is now simply a marker to help remind us of the love that has moved from the suburbs of Denver, all the way to the stars.

Introductions

For ten lovely years, Raven has had the good life. She was found as a stray somewhere in Adams County, Colorado, and wound up in county dog prison. A rescue group plucked her from the animal shelter. They told me she was huddled in the corner of her cage, nose to the corner, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. She apparently had been abused. So they took her to a foster home, gave her some basic obedience skills, but mostly helped build her confidence. By the time I adopted her, she was still scared but a wonderful dog with loads of potential.

It was rough going at first. She dug craters in my flower gardens, and demonstrated an amazing skill for snatching hapless sparrows from the birdbath, leaving their bodies for me to dispose. She also took out a few squirrels that had dropped their guard in pursuit of fallen apples from the tree. I had never lived with a dog that had such a wild streak; it was definitely a challenge. On the plus side, she was the best exercise buddy I ever had, smart, independent, easy to please. After the first six months passed, I realized that I had fallen hopelessly in love with another furry creature, something I was hesitant to do after losing my sweet little Bandit, Raven’s predecessor.

Raven and I lived alone for a year before I met Dave. Much to my delight, Raven shared my love for him. When he was coming over to pick me up for a date I would say, "Where's Dave?" and she would run to the front door to await his arrival. Thank goodness his relationship with her was as good as our own, since I needed someone who could also bond with my beloved pet.

Now Raven is an old lady dog. She struggles with health problems and chances are she will not live more than a year. I have been dreading her loss more than any other. Despite all the craziness during the first couple of years we lived together, or perhaps because of it, she has wiggled her way deeper into my heart than any other dog has managed to go. So I began pestering Dave to get a second dog, in hopes that would help ease the pain when Raven leaves us. He finally agreed.

Enter Tonka, a two-year old rescue found on the eastern plains of Colorado near Lamar. The woman who fostered him said a ditch rider discovered Tonka. The poor dog was thin and covered with fleas. But he was smart, willing to learn, and so eager to please. They turned Tonka over to the Colorado Correctional Industries K-9 Companion Program, where prison inmates train dogs in basic obedience skills. Knowing we wanted to adopt from this particular program, we made arrangements to meet three dogs that seemed to have what we were looking for. In the end, Tonka won our affection.

Introducing these two was my biggest worry. The first few days were difficult as they jockeyed to establish a pecking order. Raven snapped at Tonka every time he came anywhere near. She was not at all amused by this little interloper, with boundless energy and no idea of established protocol in her house. Eventually the tension eased and it turns out she kind of likes the little fellow. We are still not sure who leads in the pecking order. Some days it seems to be Raven, other days I’m positive it’s Tonka.

The transition will be difficult as we take on the long process of helping Tonka adapt to a forever home. It is obvious to me now that adding a second dog will do nothing to keep my heart from breaking when Raven crosses the rainbow bridge. Whenever I think of it, my eyes fill with tears. The best I can hope for is that Tonka will be willing to sit close while I grieve. But what I have learned since he came to us is that my heart has plenty of room for more than one dog. I’ve also learned how much I admire the spirit of these animals whose lives began so badly. That spirit should be a lesson for us all.

The Little Red Truck

a short story written in 1998

Every morning you could find her pacing the streets, up and down, across and back, softly treading the pavement and listening to the early sounds of the day--a bird waking up the babies in its nest, or an errant alarm clock sounding warnings to its sleeping bedside neighbor. She smiled to herself at the thought of a groaning, grumpy person fumbling in the half-light of dawn to find the big snooze button that would interrupt the tortuous sounds signaling another day. She had already been up long before the sun, long before the birds, even before her own alarm clock was jolted from its own digital slumber.

Only one of the morning sounds did she dread, that of newspapers flung through the air, crashing and sliding to their rest somewhere in the driveways or near the front doors of the houses she had already passed. The paper delivery man. Here he comes. The rushing sound of a truck engine speeding up behind her made her wince. Would he throw it in front of her this time, or in back of her? A sudden whoosh of paper slicing the air not more than a foot shy of the back of her head answered the question. She heard the driver cackle as he drove on to the next house, tapping the brake of his little red truck briefly, left arm jutting out the window, then on to the next, and the next, and the next. But this time, the truck's rear lights blinked at her slowly... quickly... slowly... as if in morse code. "That was odd," she said out loud and to no one in particular.

The next morning she started earlier. It promised to be a hot day, and she preferred to walk in the cool shadows of the dawn. Along the third street of her journey, she spied the little red truck parked alongside a creepy, dank, unfriendly looking house. This must be where he lives, the evil newspaper delivery guy. She patted the truck on its hood and said softly, "You poor thing." Continuing up the sidewalk, fingers tracing along its side, suddenly the bed of the truck lifted and plopped itself in front of her, not allowing her to pass. I'm losing my mind, she thought!

Her eyes held shut tightly, she backed up--slowly guiding herself along the smooth silky surface of the truck, returning to its front, where she opened her eyes and looked. Again, it was parked properly, all four tires on the street as before. She squatted in front of the grill, peered deeply into one headlight, then the other.

Then the truck spoke, the front grills separating and moving in a manner similar to a person's lips. "Please lady, I know you understand me. Please can you help me find another life? I'm a young truck. I have so much power, so much potential. All I do is drive up and down the wrong side of the street with this goofball, or occasionally to the liquor store or McDonald's or Arby's or Burger King and back. I want to do something more meaningful. You're the only one who can help me."

She found herself five minutes later, stunned, sitting on the asphalt, legs stretched out in front of her, staring at the now-silent truck.

Her dreams that night were fitful, but oddly enough one dream mapped out for her a different route for her walk. She was pleased to venture out in a different direction the next day, fearful of another encounter with the mysterious truck. Halfway through the walk, she again found her way blocked by another little red truck, whose owner had parked it partially in the street, partially on the tiny sidewalk. This truck was different through: much older, banged up and dented everywhere, covered in dirt, one tire nearly bald and almost flat, squeezed against the curb and suffering.

"Boy, what happened to you?" she mentioned as she passed. The truck wheezed and coughed in black smoke its reply, "Oh please help me. I can't take it any more. He just keeps making me work and work and work. I pull vehicles out of the mud and snow drifts. I carry refrigerators and washers and dryers all over town. Every time someone moves, I have to help carry their smelly heavy old junk in 17 consecutive loads from point A to point B. Then in the summer, he loads me up with new sod or sand and gravel or lava rock or endless bags of crushed aluminum cans. I'm old and tired. I want to retire and sit in a driveway somewhere. I know you can hear me. Please nice lady?"

She sat on the curb, head in hands, wondering how difficult it might be to locate the phone number of the State Hospital for the Insane.

That night her dreams brought her a recipe. She awoke, ready to hit the streets earlier than ever before.

First, she traipsed over to the canal, where she cut off long stalks from the willow bushes with her trusty little pocket knife, sat down and pulled off the leaves one by one, then twisted the naked branches into a wreath that fit the crown of her head perfectly. Next was a short journey to the children's park, and with a few quick slashes and a little digging she obtained the blue plastic bridle from a kid's spring-loaded bouncy horse. And finally, she visited a graveled parking lot, where she pocketed 17 small, smooth, round river rocks.

Her odd conglomeration of possessions in tow, she made her way to the old red truck. The headlights came on when she arrived, dim but blinking with all the excitement of a little old man who had just spied a brand new Sports Illustrated magazine on a park bench.

She bent down near the grill, whispered a secret message to the truck, placed the willow crown on her head and slipped the plastic bridle onto the truck's front bumper. Her hands waved in a circle above her head, once, twice, three times, then she turned and hurried away.

Good, she was early enough! Again she whispered her secret magical words to the pretty brand new little red truck, crown of willows still intact on her head, and laid out the rocks one at a time in the shape of a triangle in front of the truck. Waving her hands, she exclaimed "One two three!" and closed her eyes for exactly three minutes.

When she opened her eyes, the rocks were gone. The shiny new truck sat silently in front of her, a blue plastic bridle stuck on its bumper. She went home and slept all day long, not dreaming once.

The next morning on her walk, she heard the delivery truck behind her. Swooshhhh, thwaapppp, shoooshhhhh went the newspapers sliding into home plate.

The pretty little red truck barreled up behind her, but she didn't stop or flinch this time. It sputtered, coughed, belched out a bit of black smoke and came to a rest behind her. She heard the driver cursing, turning the engine, and was almost certain there was the sound of a old man's giggle from inside the truck's deepest parts. She reached the end of the block, and turned the corner safely without a newspaper landing anywhere near her. The truck rattled on, lurching, belching, giggling.

Later that day, she came upon the old truck, heaving, pulling, RPMs sounding wildly as it struggled to remove a beige Pontiac that apparently made a right turn instead of a left and landed, embarrassed, smack dab in a muddy ditch. She watched and cheered silently until the car emerged safely. She winked at the grungy old truck, with the heart and soul of a brand new shiny little red truck, and went on her merry way. She heard a little toot from its horn. It sounded so happy, and so was she.

-- The End --

Dazed and Confused: An Obit

March 17, 2042
The Denver Post

Debbie / Deb / Deborah (take your pick, she answered to anything) grew up as a bewildered little girl, famous in a family full of obsessive-compulsive talkers as the one who "wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful." Over time she learned to cuss a blue streak. In fact, "shit" was her favorite curse word.

As a freshman in high school, Debbie found herself in a beginning typing class with her perfect, personable, straight-A-student older brother. This marked the first time in her life she discovered something she could do that her brother simply could not manage. A light bulb went off, and thus sprang forth Deb's illustrious career as a word processor, secretary, administrative assistant or office manager... pretty much any kind of job where it was vitally important that you crank out shit on a keyboard, and do it fast. Oh yeah, 112 wpm, no errors. You heard right.

In 1976, while cruising 16th Street in downtown Denver, Deb met and fell in love with a shaggy-haired salmon and crab fisherman from Alaska. This handsome young man with the exotic far-away life promised to love her forever, but instead broke her heart into a million tiny pieces. She then embarked on a years-long mission to determine how many other men she could lure into treating her even more badly than her first love. Not surprisingly, it was a rousing success. During those years, Deb enjoyed plenty of rum-n-Cokes with tequila shots, dug smoking pot while eating Doritos with M&Ms on the side, and especially loved dancing to music by Donna Summer, the Bee Gees, and Earth Wind & Fire. (Hey, it was the seventies.)

Growing weary of life in the fast lane, she eventually chose the grown-up approach to life and bought a townhome while simultaneously adopting an emotionally unstable, hairy black puppy. Along the way--in between typing faster and faster and moving into the corps of elite PC drones--Deb traded up to a sorry looking fixer-upper home and adopted another nutty, hairy black dog, seemingly cementing her future as a lonely spinster surrounded by quirky dogs and loads of dog hair.

In her mid-forties, a calm, quiet man from the internet appeared in her life, a fellow with freckles and strawberry blonde hair who didn't treat her badly and really liked her dog. This turn of events left her confused, bewildered, even frightened a little bit. So she married him, and they lived out the rest of their lives lovingly pestering one another while traveling, adopting more dogs (each one nuttier than the last), and purchasing one last fixer-upper home.

Deborah Ann enjoyed reading, loved to write silly stories and poetry, and spent much time contemplating the "what-ifs" of a dazed and confused life. After much consideration, she finally set an important goal for her golden years: to outlive her father, who died four days shy of his 85th birthday.

Born during a blizzard on March 1, Debbie died on a warm, sunny day, March 14, aged 85 years and 14 days. Her last words were rumored to be, "Holy shit, I did it."