Eleven Years

10/16/11
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It's Sunday morning. A beautiful, crisp, clear, North Carolina blue-sky day.

It felt good to walk Jack this morning. Black Jack, a happy, lively English Lab. From Jack's place, I went to Robbie & Tsula's place. Robbie and Tsula are two little fluff-ball Pomeranians. I spoke with one gentleman on my dog-walk rounds this morning; a friendly, thankful chap. It was pleasant.

I miss my laptop. It's been over a week since I managed to spill coffee on it resulting in its inability to function. Fortunately my extended warranty covers coffee spills. I'm not as prone to compose with pen and paper as with a laptop. I can type faster than I can push a pen.

My vehicle got stolen this past Friday night. That was a shocker.

I'd had a long week with lots of work - packing art, walking dog, scooping kitty litter. I'd had some stressful events on Thursday with the by-product of anxiety through out the day, irrational concerns regarding my physical safety and that of my family. I handled those fears with rational debate, my thoughts telling me the more likely scenarios regarding my fears. But still, I felt the anxiety.

When I arrived home Thursday night in the dark hours of 10:15, I was met with three police cars, each parked with blue-lights awhirl. One sat in a small church parking lot around the corner from the street where my home resides. One was parked at the corner convenience store, a few hundred yards down the street from the church. The third swirling blue light sat on a side street across from my home. I pulled in behind the squad car, got out of my car, and walked toward the police car. I needed to know what was happening; my house was bathed in darkness.

"Mam, get back in your car," the woman office sternly stated.

I wasn't getting back in my car until I knew what was going on. I'd had enough anxiety for one day; this wasn't helping.

"What's going on?" I responded.

"Mam, get back in your car," was the response.

"I live across the street and I need to know what is going on."

"You'll confuse the dogs. I need you to get back in your car."

"Dogs? Why are there dogs?"

"There's been a robbery at the corner store. I need you to get back in your car."

Well shit; that's great. I wonder if hubby is home.

I call my neighbor from my cell phone and tell him what is up. "Crap! I'm gonna turn on the flood lights out back. Do you need me to come over while you go in the house?"

"I don't know yet. I'll know after I pull in the driveway."

"I'll stay on the phone until you know if John's home," he responded.

I pull in my dark driveway. John's car is there. My neighbor and I end our phone call and I call John's cell to make sure he's okay inside. His just-awakened-by-the-phone voice answers. He's fine. I make my way inside and secure the house.

But it was the next night, Friday night, that my vehicle got stolen.

Like I'd done for 11 years, I park my 1999 Ford Explorer in the automotive garage parking lot. I retrieve an Early Bird Service envelope from the translucent plastic box. I climb back into my dark vehicle and turn on the interior light. With a pen I fill in the blanks on the envelope: my name, the vehicle color, the mileage, my address, make, model, license plate number. I check what I need serviced - oil change, lubrication, tire rotation. I write in the special notes section: "Get it ready for cold weather." At the bottom, I sign the line stating I don't want any old parts that might need replacing.

My husband awaits in his car parked beside the Explorer. From the parking lot, we were going for a ride in his car; a joy ride. We hadn't done a joy ride in awhile. The night was clear and fresh.

Like I'd done for 11 years I throw the envelope in the night box slot with the thought, I'm always nervous doing this with all my idee on the envelope. That niggling thought must be irrational too; nothing has ever happened in the last 11 years when I've used the Early Bird Service.

It was around 9:25 PM when hubby and I pull out of the parking lot to embark on our joy ride. Hubby drives while I sip a rum and coke that he had brought along for me. I yack a lot while he drives; I'd not been around people much this past week...mainly just dogs and cats.

On the way home he just happens to take the route that goes by the garage and he just happens to look over in the parking lot where we had parked the Explorer an hour earlier.

The Explorer had vanished.

Eleven years. So much for my Friday-night "irrational" concern.

I hope I get my parts back even though I signed the "don't-want-old-parts" line on the envelope.

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