The fiction continues

I didn't realize it had been over a year.  

Continuing on from here . . .



Just as I was thinking that "What?", I met Mr. Trammel.

Rather, I tripped over him.

I've met a lot of people in my life, but never have I tripped over one and continued in such a manner as to have any sort of a conversation, other than profuse apologies.

He didn't want an apology.  He wanted to discuss the morning and introduce himself.

Mr. Trammel seemed to be in his 60's and was obviously "down on his luck". He bapologized in a slumbering, slurred speech sort of manner and then hefted himself to his feet. I noticed the bruises and dried blood around what appeared to be a fairly new bandage. I thought I had seen him before, but didn’t remember him being one of the homeless vagrants brave enough to canvas the urban center of town.

He was polite and wanted to know if I could give him a ride. No place really out of the way or far off. Just down the road a ways.

Not going anywhere near a steering wheel, I simply inquired what he needed. He reiterated that he wanted to go "down the road aways".

Apparently, he hails from a little-known burb on the periphery of my hometown – one that just being from is enough to classify most people as "down on their luck", if you believe in luck.

Mr. Trammel was sweating. It wasn’t warm enough to warrant sweating, but I could see the tell-tale "zipper" from an open heart surgery. He was short of breath already and when he lit the cigarette I thought, “That certainly won't help.” His short stature and what was a formerly healthy and stout body was fairly gaunt with just enough lingering ochre color to make me think he didn’t care much about what I thought about his cigarettes or any other habits he might enjoy.

He told me all about the bruises on his head and the bleeding in his brain from when the "three guys beat me up the other night". He was living in a tent in the woods and apparently the local redneck crowd decided he could be their entertainment for the evening. He went to the hospital, but hates those places. That's where they told him about the bleeding in his brain.

He didn’t want to walk, but he wanted to go to the store to buy himself something to drink. He didn't say which store or what kind of drink, but it was obvious by his disheveled appearance and significantly foul odor that he wasn't after tea or milk.  I figured liquor.

Bad idea with a head bleed.

Very bad idea.

Not that he listened, but I told him anyway.  He was no longer interested in me since I was offering him nothing in the form of transportation.  He and I turned away from each other - him continuing on down the street with little zephyrs stirring into his face, me figuring if I threw him the couple of quarters in my pocket it would get him closer to bus fare at least; but as I turned he was no longer there. Not even the stench of him or his cigarette lingered in the crisp, cool air.  The breeze was now blowing into my face and it made no sense that he was gone so quickly.  He must have moved quickly for an old man with a cardiac condition, because he was just gone.  Street people don't just disappear like that.

I wanted distance between us if for no other reason than to not have to think about him any longer.  My guilty conscience had enough to deal with without some homeless drunk weighing heavily upon it; but I couldn't stop thinking about him.  I was certain he was now pestering some other early-riser who was less kind than even I at that time of the morning.  Downtown vagrants are not well-tolerated and usually don't linger more than a couple of hours.  The simple fact that he was even there and gone so quickly bothered me.

When did I become so egotistical as to forget how to help people like him?  What was I doing with my miserable, moping self that I could not, would not see their needs.

I walked on, pondering Mr. Trammel, while looking for the bottom of my cup of coffee.  Still not certain where I was going or what my purpose in these morning walks served.  They should've cleared my head and prepared me for a productive day.  Instead, they seem to cloud my already trauma-addled thoughts. 

Definitely time for some action.

Firsts and Lasts

My wife's grandmother bought her very first new car in 1989.  A white Mercury Topaz, 4-door sedan.

She drove that little Topaz around Ft. Wayne, Indiana until she moved down South a dozen or so years ago.  From then on out it has only seen Saturday drives to the beauty parlor and Sunday drives to church.  Throw in the very seldom trip to the grocery store when no one else was around to take her and the car has a whopping 57,526 miles on it.

That darling little Topaz is also grandma's last car.  After recovering from a broken right hip last year, her family has decided (and she reluctantly acquiesced) that she should no longer drive.

She's turns ninety-six on Feb 5th.

It's probably about time.

My wife is thankful because in her opinion it's somewhere around 30 years overdue.  She never remembers riding anywhere with her grandmother that the driving wasn't at least a little scary.

Grandma grew up on a farm in Montana where the ability to drive was a necessity.  She clearly remembers driving a tractor and a truck as young as six.  Horses and cattle always needed to be fed, and she & her sister were the helpers who drove the tractor and/or the feed truck around while her dad unloaded the hay.

Being the practical-minded person she is, grandma took it upon herself to teach several of her grandkids to drive long before their own parents thought they were due.  She would take a grandkid or two to the mall or civic center parking lot and let them drive around.  Most of them started as young as ten.  They didn't tell their parents, because it was silently understood that they were too young to legally be behind the wheel of a car on any public property.

When she fell and broke her hip last Spring, she was very disappointed that it would hamper her driving.  She even told one of the paramedics attending to her, "I wish it had been my left hip so I could get back to driving sooner."  That's her personality.  Independent - she still lives by herself, cooks for herself, does her own laundry and probably would still drive herself to get her hair done and to church if the family didn't look after her so very closely.  She's spirited, lively and still very full of energy.  During her stay at a rehabilitation facility one of the nurses suggested she join the group in the main dining room for dinner one evening.  Grandma's response was, "Why would I want to do that?  It's just a bunch of old folks!"

So the car is no longer parked in her driveway and she's a little sad with the life changes going on; but she decided if she couldn't drive it, it should still be used for a good purpose.

That car became my oldest son's first car recently.  Not for free, mind you.  Grandma understands the importance of young people knowing what things are worth.  He bought it with his own money, has to fix anything that's wrong with it with his own money, and has to pay his own insurance on the car.

Smart woman, that one.


While we were signing the paperwork grandma said, "This is the first time I've been without a car since I was twenty years old."

Think about that for a minute.

That means she had her first car in 1935.

She drove for 75 years.

I can't imagine.