Sunday Musings --

I heard a song the other day that I haven't heard for probably 30+ years. It was a "blast from the past" and I found myself singing along to lyrics I'd forgotten even existed. Love...look what you've done to me, I never thought I'd fall again so easily... Hearing the song brought pure joy. I let the music wash over me in the car, evoking memories and times gone by. When the song came out in 1980 I was a broke college student having the time of her life, wonderfully naive about the world and real life, with a roommate who would become a lifelong friend, and with a burning desire to see and experience everything she could. It was a time of innocence and excitement and it changed the trajectory of my life. And Boz Scaggs transported me right back there in a single song. What a lovely gift. 

Around here, Covid vaccine rollout continues, although at a dismal pace. I just checked and Tennessee is 46th out of 50 states in terms of distributing the vaccines that have been received. I fear it may be summer before I can get mine. Even for an introvert like me, this staying-at-home-and-keeping-my-distance business is getting really old. I'm ready for dinner out with friends or shopping somewhere besides Amazon. But I'm not indulging because I want us all to be safe. Too many people have lost loved ones from this terrible virus -- sometimes because of pure selfishness on someone's part who refused to act responsibly -- and I won't play any part in anyone else getting sick. So I wait for better days. They will come...I have faith.

That Cute Boy I Married loves classic TV and movies and he has a real knack for finding new/old movies for us to watch together. Last night we enjoyed "Dinner and a Movie" with a showing of Midnight Lace with Doris Day and Rex Harrison, along with John Gavin, Roddy McDowell, and Myrna Loy. It's a great little whodunit, and I found myself vacillating on who were the good guys/bad guys right up to the end. 

More later --

An original short story: The Car

I wrote this story a few years ago. Hope you enjoy.

The Car by Patty Panni

For Sale: 1968 Dodge Charger R/T 426 Hemi V8 4-speed. Fully restored to original factory specs, beautiful inside/out, one owner. Serious inquiries only. 555-0146. 

There was so much more I could say about the car, but I figured that was enough to bait the hook. The picture was better than any words I could write, anyway. So, I hit Enter and posted the ad to our local buy-and-sell website.

As I finished my coffee, I thought back to the day I bought the car. I’d just finished my second overseas tour of duty in the Army, and I was still getting used to deciding when I would wake up, eat, and sleep, instead of having it decided for me. I’d saved most of my pay, dreaming of a fast car and freedom, and the day finally came. I drove my new Charger straight to Mary’s house from the dealership, ink still wet on the sales slip. I was raring to show it to her and ask her to marry me. That was a good day. Actually, that was the first of a lifetime of good days.

 When we got married, the Charger took us to Niagara Falls for our honeymoon. I drove it to work every day and, when I got a better job, it took me there as well. It brought our first baby home from the hospital. And our second. Seems like that car has been a part of every big event in our lives. We would take the baby out for late night drives, when he just wouldn’t settle down and Mary was beside herself with worry. And just like magic, within a few minutes Joey would be out like a light. I also remember on some of those nights while Joey slept, Mary and I would park someplace quiet and climb into the back seat like a couple of teenagers. Yeah, the Charger held a lot of sweet memories, that’s for sure.

 Of course, with two kids, Mary wanted us to have a family car… with four doors. I just couldn’t get rid of the Charger. It was a part of me…of us. So I took a second job to afford car payments on an Oldsmobile for the family. It was worth it.

As the kids grew, we started new traditions like most families do. Joey and Mark loved nothing better on a Saturday morning than heading down a dirt road to go fishing. I can still hear them hollering “Shotgun!” as they raced toward the car. I’d have to settle it before it got out of hand—making them take turns riding up front. Then, soon as we got home, they’d fill up a bucket with soapy water and wash the dirt off her.

 As the boys got older, each inevitably wanted to borrow the car, to “go get a Coke” and show his friends, and—eventually—take a special girl to the movies. I’d give a stern lecture and a firm time limit, but I’d eventually hand over the keys. I knew how they felt.

The years flew by, taking our boys with them. They grew up, left home, and started their own families. Mary and I felt a little lost without them at first, but after a while it was sorta fun. We’d go on dates like when we were young…always in the Charger. By that time I was making enough money for us to live comfortably, and I began restoring the car. It was showing its age (weren’t we all?) and I wanted to keep the old girl as beautiful as she was the first day I drove her. A lot of good years passed that way – Mary enjoying her gardening and me working on the car.

Of course, nothing lasts forever, no matter how much we might want it to. Mary got sick last year and—before I could even wrap my head around it—the cancer took her. Just like that, the girl I’ve loved since I was a kid barely even shaving, was gone.

Nowadays, I’m thinking it’s time for a change. Time to get out of this house and into the world. The grandkids keep asking me to come visit them and I’m ready to do that; see new places and things.

And, it’s time to let the Charger go to a new owner, someone who’ll love her and take care of her like I did. Hey, there’s my phone. I wonder if it’s somebody about the car.

An original short story: Our Own Version of Inferno

I chose to set this story in our home city, Memphis. I hope you enjoy it!

Our Own Version of Inferno

It was a heavy, humid night with no breeze stirring. Dan drove through the streets of Memphis, his brow creased with worry, in neighborhoods he would rather not have known about – had not known about until recently. His wife Sue sat in the passenger seat, face glued to the window, keeping a watchful eye on all they passed. Broken down houses, empty storefronts, vacant lots, a woman walking slowly while looking over her shoulder at them as they passed, crumbling walls, broken bottles. Broken lives. At 3:00 am, this part of the city was shockingly awake, alive with people on the streets watching the SUV watching them. Clusters here and there, voices raised, pipes and cigarettes glowing in shadowy faces.

No words passed between them except the occasional directive. “Wait, slow down. Did you see….?  No…never mind, keep going.” “There’s an alley. Turn here.” Time seemed to stand still as they navigated gridlines of squalid streets. Methodically…robotically…hypnotically they drove, Dan reaching down absentmindedly to touch the handle of his Ruger 9 mm, a recent purchase…just in case, he thought.

Only when the first bands of light were showing on the horizon did Sue allow herself to sit back, take a deep breath, stretch her neck. She looked at Dan, who was still totally focused on the task before him. “We’re not going to find her tonight. Wherever she is, she’s settled in somewhere sleeping it off by now.”

Dan exhaled – a long slow expulsion of air that sounded as if he had been holding his breath for hours. He pulled the car over to the curb and parked, his hand rubbing the base of his neck. He turned and looked at his wife, fatigue lining his face. “Sue…honey…” His words, the first he had spoken in several hours, came out more as a croak than anything. He suddenly realized that he wanted—no, needed—coffee. Trouble was, he was so tired he didn’t know if he could actually drive any further.

As if reading his mind, Sue said, “Dan, honey, you’re exhausted. I’ll drive us home. And I’ll find us some coffee on the way.” How does she just know, Dan thought as he gratefully complied. Coffee in hand, they silently made the drive back to their stately home in East Memphis. Their neighborhood was a study in contrast from where they had been. Pristinely manicured lawns, water droplets pirouetting from automatic sprinkler systems, refined houses set well back from the streets. So quiet. Why would she walk away from all this, Dan thought, our home, the life we’ve worked so hard to give her …. from us? The questions formed a ceaseless loop through his mind. No answers to be found. No daughter to be found. Only the questions.

At home, Sue got in the shower while Dan collapsed in a chair in their bedroom, watching the sun rise in the sky and feeling feeble beyond his years. Eventually, they both lay down and slept for a few hours, but it was a fitful sleep, with dreams too frightening to recall. As dusk fell that evening, they got back to work, Sue brewing coffee and filling up the thermos; Dan inspecting the car to make sure they had everything. Flashlights: check; pepper spray: check; extra cell phone, $20 bills, night vision glasses, water: check. Gun. Check. They got in the car and began their night. Our own little version of Inferno, Dan mused grimly as he drove.

“I thought we could start at the project on North Thomas,” Sue said, “You know, the one where we found her a few months ago? I’ve got a feeling she may be there.”  Nodding, Dan turned the car toward the housing project they now knew all too well. Unsuccessful there, they headed west and south, near the foot of the old Mississippi River bridge. There were so many streets to check; so many people to ask. They sometimes offered money for good information. But it was all dead ends. And always, the nagging fear that, 10 minutes after they left a corner, what if she showed up? Always doubling back, just in case.

A few hours passed, and Sue rubbed her gritty eyes. “How about a bathroom break?” she asked. Dan found a gas station/convenience store and pulled up to the pumps. Sue went into the “ladies room” although that was a misnomer by any stretch for the dank and dirty room, its walls covered with graffiti. As Sue peed while crouching over the toilet rather than touching it, she looked at the potpourri of scribbles on the wall. Just as she was using her foot to flush, she saw it. It was her daughter’s handwriting, she was sure of it. “Life begins on the other side of despair” was written in her distinctive flowery cursive. Sue reached out to the filthy wall and touched the words, then put both hands on them and could not stop the primal sobs that took hold of her and threatened to never let her go.

“Sue,” Dan burst through the door, “What is it?” She pointed at the words and she could see him taking measure, then realizing what she already knew. “She was here,” he murmured, “She wrote this.”

"But what does it mean?” Sue asked. He studied the words, then took out his phone and took several pictures. “Dan?”

“I don’t know what it means, honey. I guess it’s just one of her existential quotes she used to throw around.”

“We didn’t listen to her,” Sue wept, “She was trying to tell us something through those sayings and we didn’t listen. When she needed us, we weren’t there.”

“Honey. Stop.” Dan wrapped his arms around her and rocked back and forth. “We’ve always been there for her…always will be there for her. This is a good sign, you know? She’s been here; she may be staying somewhere around here.”

Sue nodded, and, hands clasped, they walked out the door and back to the car.

An original short story: Three Wishes

I wrote this story in 2017 about a crotchety older woman and her flighty sister. It was fun writing it and it's still fun to read it. Hope you enjoy!

“Whatever we do,” Marge said breathlessly, “we must not fritter away this opportunity!”

I looked at her over my glasses and sighed. “No, Marge. We definitely won’t fritter it away.” I looked away and muttered, “whatever that means,” under my breath.

“I heard that!” she exclaimed. “You always think I don’t hear, but I do. I hear more than you think.”

Marge is my older sister. She is, like most women in our family, endowed with…plump features, shall we say. She fought against it in her youth but now, well on the north side of 70, she has long since given into the genes and settled into a “comfortable” body. And me? I’m Sue, the baby of the family, although at age 69, it has been a long time since that particular term has been ascribed to me. I am the aberration in our family line of curves and softness. I am, and always have been, a beanpole, to put it bluntly. And, in case you haven’t noticed, bluntly is how I put practically everything. Nope, no softness here.

Marge and I live together these days. After her husband passed, she wasn’t happy alone, so she moved back into my home. Well, technically it is our family home. Having never been married, this is where I have always lived. People say, “What’s it like, living in one house your entire life?” and my response is always, “What’s it like bouncing from house to house like a pinball?”

At present, Marge and I are standing in a small antique store she loves. Actually, “antique” is a rather generous term. It’s more like a junk store. A dusty, cluttered, dim junk store that smells like mothballs and mold. Marge drags me here as often as I’ll allow it, which is not often, I can tell you that much. She has found yet another silly trinket that will sit on a shelf and collect dust like that’s its full-time job. Of course, there’s nothing I can say to dissuade her once she has honed in on a treasure (her word, not mine), so I know it is coming home with us.

“Just imagine,” Marge said reverently, “What if there was a real Genie in this bottle!” She held the old murky glass piece in both hands like she was cradling the Hope Diamond.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I huffed, “That’s just an old wine decanter. Honestly, the things that come out of your mouth. I think you were dropped on your head as a child.”

Ignoring me completely, Marge headed for the cash register. Thank God. Ten more minutes in this place and I would need a ventilator. I cannot abide dust.

In short order, we were in the car and headed home. I could tell Marge was dreamily contemplating how to summon the imaginary genie from its bottle. I, on the other hand, was rather enjoying her rare silence. Honestly, my sister talks like she gets a paycheck for it. Anything and everything are acceptable topics to her.

When we got home, Marge headed posthaste to her room, murmuring something about “restoring you to your former greatness.” Humph.

I settled into the wingback chair in our den with my well-worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I do enjoy a good dramatic story, and Dumas never disappoints. Just as the action was picking up, Marge, in typical fashion, burst into the room. “Sue! Oh, Sue, you’ll never guess in a million years what just happened!”

I looked at her over my glasses and sighed. “No, I’m quite sure I would never guess. If you want me to know, tell me.  If not…” I waggled my book in her face.

“It works,” Marge squeaked, her voice at least an octave higher than normal, “There’s an actual Genie in that bottle! I just made a wish!”

I stood up. This was getting out of hand. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses?” She shook her head and took a breath as if to say more. I held up my hand and said, “Honestly, Marge, I think we need to get your carotid artery checked. Your brain might not be getting the proper blood flow.”

She followed me into the hall. “Sister, listen to me. If you’ll just come into my room, I can…”

“Marge!” I interrupted, “This has gone far enough. Now, I’m going to my room to rest, and hopefully, you’ll do the same thing.” I closed the door in her face and went to my chair, dropping into it like a rag doll. Marge had always been a fanciful one, but this … this was starting to worry me. Perhaps I should call Doc Baker. He’s been our doctor for years. He is a fine doctor, despite his annoying habit of telling me I’m “no spring chicken anymore” every time I bring up an ailment. Perhaps he could run some tests on Marge. I dearly hope she’s not getting addled. Dementia, that’s the word. I shudder to even think of it.

Eventually, I grew tired of worrying and decided to lie down, pulling my green chenille bedspread up to my chin. In no time flat, I was asleep. But unfortunately, not for long.

Startled awake by very loud knocking, I got up, smoothing my hair and settling my glasses on my nose. “What is it?” I asked rather sharply as I opened the door. Marge was standing in the hallway, a triumphant see-I-told-you-so look on her round face. “What in the world is all the commotion…did the roof cave in?”

“No, Silly,” Marge said, “it’s the Genie! He granted my first wish!”

I looked at her over my glasses and sighed. “The Genie.”

“He told me I had two more wishes,” she exclaimed. “Can you imagine? Three wishes for anything in the entire world!”

This had gone far enough. I strode down the hall toward the kitchen. Where was the telephone directory? I needed Doc Baker, and fast.

“Sue,” Marge said plaintively behind me, “Sue, please look at me.” I turned slowly and looked at her over my glasses. She extended her cupped hand toward me, holding something. I stepped closer to see what it could possibly be.

“Remember?” Marge said softly. “Oh, Sue, tell me you remember.”

I looked at the tiny egg sitting in her palm. It was robin’s egg blue…in fact, it looked very much to be an actual robin’s egg. As I stood there, wondering if Mental Health Professionals were listed under the M’s, H’s, or P’s, a vague scene flitted on the edge of my recollection. We were quite young, Sue and I.  She had found a nest on the ground under a tree in our backyard, with tiny blue eggs nestled inside, and brought it to me. I strained to recall the details of that incident, so long unearthed in my memory.

“I … I climbed the tree to put the nest back,” I said.

“That’s right.” Marge sounded as though she were talking to a three year old. Humph.

“I still don’t see what this could possibly—“

“Sue. You saved those baby birds. They hatched later that spring, remember? We saw their tiny little heads with wide-open beaks just above the top of the nest when the mama robin would bring them worms.”

“Yes…you’re right, I do remember that,” I said. I hadn’t thought of that in decades. “What on earth made you think of that after all these years?”

“It was my first wish,” Sue said softly. “My first wish was to return to a time when you were happy…when we were happy. I walked outside to check the mail, and there was this little blue egg, sitting in our mailbox, like a gift someone left for us. No…not just someone…the Genie!”

I looked at my sister. My daydreaming, flighty, head-in-the-clouds sister, who has a heart of gold. “Well, that was a very nice first wish, Marge,” I said, “And it worked…I am happy. Happy you're here with me and happy to share that memory with you.”

Marge beamed. “I’m going to put this egg in the living room where it can always remind us of that day, and that feeling.”

Yet another thing to collect dust. I opened my mouth to tell her she was to do no such thing, but stopped. I guess one little egg wouldn’t attract too much dust, after all.

“Let’s go make something together for dinner,” I said instead, and linked my arm through hers to head into the kitchen. “But tell me, I asked, “What is your next wish going to be?”

“Oh, I already know what wishes two and three are going to be, Sue,” she said with a mysterious smile. “But, that’s a secret.”

I looked at Marge over my glasses.  “Well, I certainly couldn’t ask you to divulge a secret, now could I? I’m famished. What about a nice chicken pot pie?”