Hot Diggity's Carolina Story telling thread.

That Woman

The North Carolina DMV made me surrender my old license plate so they could recycle it.

That reminded me of my collection of old plates that I hauled around in the trunk of my '72 Pontiac Gran Prix. The car was named Seldom Seen, since I spent so much time overseas.

I was home on leave and had a temporary tag on the back window. Since the fuel filler was under the license plate it was unsightly with no plate mounted in the holder. I put an expired 1979 Michigan plate on the car since it was black and matched the paint.

We drove all over the place and nobody noticed the tag at all... until we were coming back through U.S. customs from Ontario. This is usually a quick process, and with the light traffic I was surprised it was taking so long. I had been playing the border crossing game for years. I always gave honest answers. Some were simple yes or no, like,

Q. Do you have any Irish (pronounced "Arsh") potatoes?

Others were more fun.

Q. Do you have any bottles?

A. (Holding up a 2 liter Mountain Dew bottle) Just this one.

The trunk may have been full of Dorans beer and Northern Ale, but they were cans.

They were clearly more interested in imported liquor than in my trips to the Provincial Beer Store. They'd even ask occasionally if we had any liquor. No was honest enough. Just a few sleeves of beer. I didn't even get any beer this trip.

Finally the guard comes up and asks me to step out of the car. It's snowing, and I'm dressed for a North Carolina winter day, so it's chilling. He walks me to the back of the car and asks if that is my license plate on the car. "Sure is..." was an honest answer. To which he informed me that it doesn't match the registration for this car.

That wasn't the question. He'd asked if it was my plate, and it certainly was. I then explained that I had selected it from my pile of plates because it was the same color as the car.

I'm just trying to get across the border, so when he asks if he can see my other plates I open them he trunk and hand them to him. Michigan and North Carolina plates from all my cars going back to the mid 1970's.

He has to run every one of them. All belong to me, so he eventually comes back and starts explaining how I just can't pick out a plate based on color. I let him finish, and step up to the back window and brush the snow off so he can see the Michigan temporary tag, complete with instructions on it stating exactly where on the inside of the rear glass it was to be stuck with its' two adhesive strips.

He was frustrated, but again he hadn't asked about the current tag or asked for the registration.

We were almost ready to go when he asked "So where did you meet that woman with you?"

"Oh, That Woman? I just picked her up this morning."

He didn't like that answer either and made her get out in the cold too. He separated us, but I could see her glaring at me. She satisfied the officer that all was well, and he gave me back my pile of license plates and let us be on our way.

When I got back in the car she demanded to know what I had told him about her. Apparently my calling her "That Woman" had given him the impression that she was a stranger that I had just picked up that morning and was transporting across the border. I got an ear full about that as we drove away. I had in fact picked her up at her parents house that morning before we went for a drive.

That Woman probably still thinks of that day. Could be why she thinks of me and smiles when she sees a chipper shredder grinding up trees. She waited patiently for me to get my Global wandering finished before we got married a very long time ago. To me she'll always be That Woman.

 

I saw a CJ3A the other day and it made me think of a time Dad and I had gone fishing. On the trip out no matter where we were going he always produced a pack of Chuckles candies for us to share. He usually only wanted the licorice one. On the way to the lake he almost always got me with some Dad joke or something. One morning he said "Strange." Knowing my father, I'd never get an answer unless I asked, so I said "What's strange?"
"The name on the mailbox back there."
"What was strange about it?"
"Nothing. That was the name on the mailbox... Strange."

We were coming home from fishing with the boat trailer on the back of the CJ5. Dad pulled over just a little too far to let a car pass on a narrow dirt road. (which describes most of the roads around us in South Eastern Michigan) He put the Jeep and trailer over the verge, as the Norwegian's called it. The combination of the trailer, the grade and the mud had us in a fix. We were just about ready to take the shoe leather express home when a CJ2A with a mechanical winch came over the hill. He puled his old Jeep up against a giant oak tree, ran his winch cable out and had us back up on the gravel in no time at all. I was impressed with the mechanical winch and always remembered how he had anchored his vehicle and made sure that none of us was in line with the winch cable as he was pulling. We thanked our fellow Jeep driver and made it home in time to wash the CJ5 and the boat trailer off before supper.

 

I had a strange dream over the weekend. Could've been from the hard lemonade, or the heat or lack of sleep. I dreamed that I heard footsteps upstairs. That would be in the attic. There's no room for me to stand up straight, not a lot of area to walk on safely, and this time of year it's like an oven up there. That sure sounded like footsteps. Like they had found the light bulb and screwed it in, so they could walk at a reasonable pace. If they were more than four feet tall they wouldn't be able to walk more than the few steps I'd heard before they ran out plywood floor and had to balance along single 2x4 rafter beams. There was no access to most of the house from the attic due to the roof line, so wherever they went I could follow silently from below.
The only way they could get the drop on me, pun intended, would be to fall through the ceiling, or try to crawl down through the attic access that was hidden under layers of insulation. It was too far from the single light up there to find, even if they had a clue where to look.. So I heard them pacing back and forth. Just one intruder.

Then I remembered where the attic plywood decking ended. A pull-down ladder led from the garage to the attic. I Quietly opened the garage door and tried to see what was going on out there without turning on the light. As my eyes adjusted I realized there was no light coming down the pull-down stairs... because they were UP! There was light coming from a leg sized hole in the ceiling drywall just beyond the end of the attic floor. Maybe only one was still pacing. There could be a second with an injured leg. Maybe they thought I kept the good stuff in the attic and were digging through the boxes and didn't want anyone else to join them. I'm sure they were disappointed with the lamp shades and Christmas decorations they found up in the attic.

If they were trying to hide from me by pulling up the ladder they were sure doing a poor job of it. They had managed to get the folding ladder pulled up from up there, so I reasoned that they'd be able to reopen it. My ladder was against the wall, and it would easily wedge the folding stairs closed against anything pushing down from above, but it would be noisy getting it in position and they might burst down the stairs if they heard me banging around. As far as I could tell they were unaware that I had come home. Would they panic and fall through the floor if I made some noise? It had to be HOT up there. How long could they survive up there in the July heat?

They didn't seem much of a threat. Nobody would have much fight left after falling through a ceiling onto mostly really terrible places to fall onto. If they lowered the stairs they'd be facing either a locked garage door or the muzzle of a gun. I didn't want to shoot anyone in the house, certainly not in the attic, so I wasn't going to try to confront them. Could just leave them up there until they stopped moving, but then I'd still have a clean-up, and a body to explain, unless I just waited to report a bad odor. That still meant cleaning. Far worse cleaning. Possums and buzzards wouldn't even be able to get in to help. Even in the intense heat of the attic they'd still leak through the ceiling. They needed to go.

There was little of value in the garage, probably less than the attic, and with no lights they would just stumble around and knock stuff over anyway. What if I turned on the outside lights, opened the outside garage door that they'd come in through, and locked the inside garage door? Doing all those things would sound like someone coming home and they might just leave. See the light and like a trapped animal, run toward it.
Maybe I should sit outside in a lawn chair and confront them when they come out. Maybe just get a good look at them and watch where they go.

I fell asleep thinking about the consequences of doing that, and about hardening the whole area where they'd gotten in so they couldn't come back, or just calling the police to report somebody in my attic.

Then I woke up. I wanted to sleep, but not until after I'd looked in the garage to be sure the pull down ladder was still down and the garage door was still locked. It wasn't until then I was sure it'd been a dream.

I'm still considering my options on what would be the best course of action, both for today and during a scenario were there are no police to call. I'm also looking at how I can make access to the attic more difficult, less desirable, and if somebody does get up there who shouldn't be, maybe more entertaining to listen to from inside the house.