It's Only Funny Now

One day in late January I lost my car key (FOB; REMOTE KEY; KEYLESS ENTRY; the thing that opens the door).  My mind raced back and forth to everything I had done and everywhere I had been the last two days.  “The thing has to be here in the house. How else could I have driven home?” I begged Jack for an answer. He stood bewildered with his head shaking side to side.

Meet Helen Reddy

Over the next few days we turned the furniture upside down, checked every pair of jeans we ever wore, searched every coat pocket even if we didn’t use the coat, vexation does that to me. I become frantic, thinking I’m losing my mind.

On a warm sunny day I searched the backyard grumbling and kicking sticks. I continued to use Jack’s key, and kept my eyes peeled for wherever I might have dropped the fob.

FOB is the correct usage. 

One day, out of nowhere, Jack met me in the hallway with matching keys, one in one hand and the other in the other hand. “Look what I found in my coat pocket. I must have picked up your key and then later picked up my key.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Now I won’t worry about my brain,” I smiled with relief.

Not a month, not a week, but two days later Jack could not find his car key fob to my car, Helen Reddy. “No,” I sputtered not angrily but bewildered, “You stood in that hallway not two days ago with two keys in your hands. How could one have disappeared?”

I grabbed my purse. There in the side pocket I felt my fob. "At least we have one," I spouted.  

Immediately, we retraced every step we could imagine. No (expletive) fob.

Days began to pass and we continually, like we had the previous weeks, looked, searched, and dug through drawers in vain.

The next day we were all three awake before sunrise, but two of us sat and thought about nothing much, while Murphy having been inside during two rainy days was ready to run. The sun began to warm the east side of our house and rainbow prisms appeared on one wall. Spring was returning.

“Let’s go to Press and Plow for breakfast,” Jack suggested.

“Yes, and let’s take Murphy with us so we can go to Ruby Grant Park and let him run in the mud.”

“Are you sure you want a dirty dog?” Jack inquired.

I could only laugh. “If we don’t bundle up and take him to the park after breakfast then we will get nothing done today except play with Murphy.” Jack laughed and we headed to the car without a key! No FOB key! How can that be?

I realized at last that Jack and I were suffering from ‘the gray sickness.’ I had heard women at the Miami Country club refer to ‘the gray sickness’ when they lost something, which seemed fairly common in my young mind. I would certainly never suffer from that disease.

We stood in sad silence. Frantically, we began to reach into pockets, scatter the items on the counter top, and I dug through my purse. “Ha. Found it in a different pocket. Let’s go before we misplace this one again.”

I ate my entire croissant stuffed with crispy thick bacon and scrambled eggs, with a side of avocado and tomatoes, while Jack only ate his eggs and half of a pancake. We sipped on hot tea and coffee letting the sun warm the air. Relaxed, how sweet.

Our romp at the park refreshed us. Thirty-seven degrees in the morning sun and light wind from the southwest worked magic on our souls.

Home by 10:00 and ready for the day. First, clean mud foot Murphy before entering the house, which I did, but Jack began to look through his tool chest. I understood. He was looking for the key fob.

With Murphy cleaner we once again searched the car and everything cubby and bag in it. We were on a mission, either locate the black fob or drive to the dealership and purchase two more keys if not three.

By 12:30 no cotton-pickin’ ear-scratching fob had appeared. We were truly distraught.

Later, I took a bag of 50+ pencils and pens (found during the cleaning of drawers) to be donated to Bridges and placed them in the front car seat. I memorized the code to get in, just in case I do something stupid! I stood beside Helen Reddy and said out loud, “Please tell me where the key is?”

Nothing.

Jack’s heavy coat, thick enough to walk a dog in an Arctic blast, lay on the car hood. As I picked up the coat to go in the house, Helen Reddy whispered, “Unlock me.”

I threw the coat on the workbench, walked back and locked the car. Picking up the heavy black coat I walked back over to the car, placed my hand on the car door and like magic it unlocked.

Rushing through the house I nearly fell on Jack as I threw the coat at him and said, “Find hidden key in there.” Buried deep in small side pocket a black fob appeared. No words were exchanged about how many times we had searched our coat pockets.

By 12:40, we held two car keys. Mine now is on a key chain. We laughed and sighed in relief. It looks like we will have to learn how to live with “the gray sickness.”

 

*The ‘gray sickness’ is a memory I have from my summers working at the Miami Country Club. Several of the women suffered from the ‘gray sickness’ when they would misplace  billfolds, house keys, cash, a blouse they should be wearing in the clubhouse over their bra tops, and more. I vowed at age fifteen I would certainly never suffer from that disease. In the midst of our angst over the lost fob I remembered that Rose Pratt named it the ‘gray sickness’ that comes when a person’s hair coloring matches it. Others who experienced the same disease were Lois Garwood, Gladys Wetzel, Lib Lillard, and Helen Stapp, who was a blonde.

**Doggone FOB. After I wrote the first draft it occurred to me that I could not use the word KEY and have the story make sense. Any reader would say, “Go to the nearest box store and have several copies made of the master car key.” I wish I could. I realized that I had a problem as did the story. Will it change my word usage from car key to FOB, I don’t know.

***Writing the story using the incorrect vocabulary can prove embarrassingly humorous.  In an earlier story used a word incorrectly: When we ran down the streets our thongs would sometimes fall of us or cause us to fall on the asphalt. Depending on the age of the reader this may or may not make sense. (Thank you for laughing and correcting my language, Dede Tebeck Sparkman, RIP)

 

 

 

 

 

Two Little Girls

Helen, Letty, Jonya, Johnie Stapp c. 1953 

There were two little girls

  A blue-eyed beauty

Who danced like a whirling gig and sang for the folks.

There were two little girls

  A green-eyed child

Who galloped like a horse and pretended to be a circus flyer.

Letty Stapp with Sherry Cantrell  c. 1955 on E. st SE, Miami, Ok

There were two little girls

   One blue-eyed little girl

Whose dark curly dangled and danced all over her head

She smiled and giggled and brought

  Joy to the world.

There were two little girls

  The other a green-eyed little girl

Whose light brown hair bounced like a butterfly.

The sun and heat graced her face

  When she pretended to be Tarzan.

Jonya, Dad, Letty  Long Beach, California c.1961

There were two little girls

  One with curls

Who loved playing with dolls; paper dolls, Tony dolls, and rosy cheeked baby dolls.

  On the stage they felt no fear.

There were two little girls

  One without curls

Who raced little cars through dirt and sand, and

Built houses out of blocks and furniture out of sticks.

  Through competition they learned fear and accomplishment.

Letty and Jonya, Prairie Dunes c. 2010

There were two little girls whose lives drifted apart

One learned a new language and found beauty in Spain

  And her calling in Spanish, a teacher she became.

Jonya in Antigua, Guatemala 2018

The other discovered books and traveled the world through words

   And felt the call of a library, a storytelling teacher she became.

 

There were two little girls, curious little girls

Together they bounced through roaring streams and ocean currents;

  Gathered sea shells, rocks, leaves, and baby bunnies;

  Chased fireflies and listened to the evening echo of locusts.

Their curious love of nature centered their lives.

There were two little girls maturing through adventures,

  Through pain and loss.

Jack and Letty at Texas State Fair, 2017

Families they raised and shared their hearts with loved ones.

One year they lost their parents, and old secrets lost their hold.

Their worlds spun but not without control.

  The blue-eyed brunette grew to fairy tale stature with

  Flowing curly hair the color of arctic ice,

Shirts of every color danced around her feet.

Her radiant smile and lyrical stories charm those around her.

Bill and Jonya cruising 2017

The green-eyed sister changed glasses by color and shapes,

  Much like her Miss Clairol hair.

She loved the laughter of children and people at play

And turned to the golf course where she lost her worries among the trees.

Letty c. 2017

There were two little girls, aging like good wine

  Who, one day, found themselves looking in the mirror

Laughing as curls the color of silver and ice danced and dangled around their faces.

And right in the middle of their foreheads curls bounced as they giggled at themselves.

Their hearts filled with love, a passion for life, thanks to their parents and the world that raised the two little girls.

Jonya and Letty, c 2016

**Dedicated to our parents Helen and Johnie Stapp who died August 26, 1989 and October 21, 1989 respectively, and to our families and friends, past and present who helped to raise two strong women.

A Mother's Name

I called her "Mom." My sister, Jonya, called her "Mimz."  The kids all knew her as Mrs. Stapp.

Mom visiting Washington, DC

Her friends called her Helen.

Golfing acquaintances called her "The Pro's Wife" and his "Better Half."  They were correct about the later.

The teachers called her "Letty's Mom" or "Jonya's Mom;" the PTA President and the Brownie Scout Leader.

When she died I heard her referred to as the "salt of the earth", as "lovely," and as "gracious." Sincere words that described her, but I only wanted my "mother."

Yes, she was and is all of those things to me, and I miss her everyday. It has been twenty-nine years, two hundred and fifty seven days since I last held her hand and cried when the hospital buzzer called "code blue."

Our hearts broke at 9:00 am that day when her heart stopped beating.

August Heat

It was a hot and sweltering night when the winds shattered the

summer silence. The thrashing limbs battered the roof as I sat glued to my book, lost in the mystery of who murdered Julia.  

"Get away. I'll toss the kid over." Bean was suddenly thrust into space, and the murderer barely holding on. Even with the tape over the child's mouth Beauvoir could hear the scream.


Then lights flashed inside and out and our house went dark but not quiet.  Rain and winds pounded the roof while I searched for my cell phone. At last I felt my phone and flashed a glimmer of light into the air. The dog bounced and whined in fear of the storm. Finding flashlights, I placed them in various rooms. 

The book had dropped to the floor in the excitement. I really wanted to know the name of the murder. I'm not beyond cheating on a book to find out who done it.  Taking a deep breath in frustration and exhaustion, I declined to cheat and savour the moment the next morning.  I crawled into bed and said goodnight world. Nearly four hours later the lights awoke us, I stared at the book and wisely returned to bed. 

Telling Jack the story the next day made us both laugh.  Such timing for the plot and the real storm to come together. Yet, I discovered in life that things occur that you simply can't explain.

It's been a summer filled with opportunities to meet new friends, to travel, spend time with friends from years past, to find peace in my heart as we approach a date marking eighteen years since I last hugged my parents, and a time to inwardly touch my mother's heart and say thank you, Helen, for saving Katy's life when a car ran the intersection and T-boned her.  

Like a character in the book A Rule Against Murder, I've learned to count my blessings each day, and say Thank You.