Trena Eiden

I don’t think vehicles like me very much, and I’m guessing, if I wasn’t so ditsy, we’d probably get along better. Last fall, while fishing with our kids at 11,000 feet in Colorado, I was enjoying blue skies and a light breeze. Sitting in a lawn chair soaking up the sun, I watched my gang of men catch and release a dozen fish. Soon the wind picked up, clouds rolled in and it became chilly. Packing my chair, I climbed straight up the hill, lucky me, to the parking lot, huffing and wishing for oxygen. With a pounding heart I stumbled to the car and tried the door but it was locked. Circling around, I peeked in each window, jiggling the door handles hoping one had miraculously misfired and was open. No chance. I looked over the cliff edge thinking my son could hit the key fob, but with the air currents they were too far away to hear me yell. I sat my chair at the front of the vehicle somewhat sheltered from the wind and contentedly dozed. Soon, I heard people coming, then behind me a door open and shut, but I stayed nestled in my seat, chair leaning back against the vehicle. Finally, a man approached and said, “Ma’am, I don’t want to frighten you but I’m going to start my car.” What? Yikes! I’d been ogling a complete stranger’s windows and molesting his door locks. It’s not my fault, Gar shouldn’t leave me unsupervised.  

A few weeks earlier we were in Texas and our grafted-in-daughter, Gelly, had a torn ligament in her ankle, so I was doing the driving. She had a Walmart pickup between 9-10 a.m. and a doctor’s appointment at 9:40. I dropped her off at the doctor’s office and drove over to pick up the groceries. Gelly called and said she needed the MRI disc at the ER from the day before, so I made my way to the hospital. Her car is the newfangled kind that doesn’t use a key so I shut it off, then decided to leave the door open in case it locked automatically. Smart. I retrieved the disc, skipped happily to the car and oh no, it wouldn’t start without the key fob. Gnashing my teeth, I took out my phone to see how far apart the two addresses were. Obviously, I had just been to both, like that matters. I considered walking, but what if everyone was waiting and what if I couldn’t easily find the medical facility again? I went back in the ER and asked if there was a currier who could tote an insane woman to a doctor’s office? The administrator, finding it all incredibly funny, said carting crazies was her specialty, so gave me a ride, waited till I took in the microfilm, and got the key-thingy (a professional term) then hauled me back. Gelly felt terrible. Good.  

Last November found us in Nevada seeing our daughter Lunny, who we took to work, then used her vehicle, also the new kind. The first day, Gar unlocked her car to get tools to put on her license plate. She texted that her phone said the car was unlocked. The car and phone talk — who knew? I said it had been, but that her dad locked it again. Making sure it was secured, we pretended to not be amateurs, leaving the key fob in the bushes, (it can’t be close to the vehicle) and tried the doors. We were golden. After lunch, we went for a drive. The car and I were on good terms. That evening, we saw it was time to get Lunny from the hospital and in my defense, it was dark. I carefully went down the shadowy steps and asked Gar if he’d unlocked the car? He said he had. Not noticing he wasn’t walking in my footsteps, I opened the door and got in. With the dome light on, I saw the large floral purse and cringed. It was not Lunny’s car. A woman had left her purse in her unlocked vehicle. Be still my heart — I could go shopping with this dame. We’re kindred spirits. I got out and there was Gar, standing by Lunny’s car waiting, drumming his fingers. As we got in, I said, “I think I get into these predicaments because I let my brain do whatever it has in mind and sometimes it takes off without me in the saddle.” I couldn’t see, but I’m pretty sure he was nodding in agreement.