Psycho Mixer

It all started when I went to get a replacement for a hand mixer that had died. I looked them all over, then saw a nice enough looking one. It had several attachments, 6 speeds, a power boost button - and it was less than any other!
Terrific, I thought, and took it home. (I didn't notice the evil chuckle it must have made as I paid for it).
Before long, I decided to try it out. I put some ingredients in the bowl, placed my new mixer's beaters in and switched it to "1" . . .. A wail like that of a thousand banshees came from my mixer as it leapt to life, flinging ingredients out of the bowl and vibrating like something alive in my hand!
Startled, I turned it off, looking to see if I maybe had turned it on 6 instead of 1. No, that was its lowest speed. To test it, I turned it to "6" . . .. The thing nearly tore itself loose from my hand and the wailing, whining, shrieking sound was just deafening! . . . I've never put it on 6 again, except once or twice in demonstration to a non believer, and I'm afraid to hit "Power Boost". Any more power and I think it might fly!
I do use it - it really is a very good mixer - if you're prepared for it and hang on tightly, but I really think it should have had a warning on it somewhere!

1997

The Great Rhubarb Caper

It was the afternoon of the tenth of June, 1999. I'd been eyeing up that rhubarb patch in the neglected garden of the empty house behind me for some time now. It was a real beauty of a patch, too. I could see two of them over there - one, large and mature - experienced, ya might say, and nearby, a young one, new and fresh, with long, slim shoots ending in tender young leaves that arched gracefully, almost modestly, to the ground.
It was the young one I was after. The mature one would be too noticeable if it were gone suddenly and, besides, she had already given up some of her "goods" to my husband, so we didn't need her over here, but I knew I could give the young one a good life and in a year or so she might be ready to give me some of the same stuff her Ma was already giving up so willingly.
I knew she was ready to go - the ground was moist and soft with recent rain and I knew there was no better time to make my move. Hungrily I watched her and her Ma from my kitchen window. "You're gonna be mine, you sweet young thing," I silently said to her as I waited for the cover of darkness.
Dusk. I'm ready. Across the yard I drift, a shadow in the hastening gloom. A shadow - with a shovel! Faintly, I can hear the theme from Mission Impossible running through my head . . . Dum, dum, DA dum - dum, dum, DA dum . . .. I'm at the target! Quickly the shovel slices into the soil around the small plant and soon it is lying on my shovel, its roots still in the ball of dirt in which it was growing.
Back across the yard I go, dodging half seen doggy land mines, my prize balanced on the blade of the shovel before me! I reach the shelter of my garage wall and tenderly ease my beauty into her new home - a previously cleared patch of ground behind my garage, just steps away from my back door.
I know she's too young to expect much of this year, but hopefully next year she'll put down new roots and provide me with that tart, tangy delicacy I love and have missed so much!
And, meanwhile, when the craving hits, there's always the older one, just waiting to give of herself at the touch of my knife!

1999

Kuttawatahr

I was cruising peacefully along I 24, about an hour out of Paducah, KY, the radio muttering softly, Mom dozing in the passenger seat. I was keeping the speed at a smooth 70 and the flat tire we had back in Illinois was becoming just an unpleasant memory. I was looking forward to getting to Nashville by suppertime, maybe even seeing my friend that evening!
Suddenly there was a loud bang, followed by a horrendous cacophony of rasping, grinding, rattling sounds! They were the worst sounds I have ever heard a car make, and they were coming from beneath my car! Mom bolted upright in terror as I hit the brakes and steered for the side of the road, wondering what on Earth could have happened, imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios. Looking in my rearview mirror as I slowed and stopped, I saw pieces of rubber flying out from under my car and with a sinking sensation realized what had happened.
Getting out, my suspicions were confirmed . . . my driver's side rear tire had literally come apart! Not only that, but the loose, flapping tread had caught a little piece of chrome in my wheel well and bent it at a right angle, contributing to the horrible noise I heard as it slammed into and scraped across it with every rotation.
Reverting to my days when my husband was in the Navy and taught me such - interesting words, I screamed a few choice ones and kicked the offending tire, (never do that with sandals on) just as Mom exited the car to see what had happened. She kindly overlooked my colorful language and told me not to worry, she has AAA and it will cover my car if she is a passenger.
We dig her car phone out from under the seat and she calls. . . . Wrong number, she needs the national number, she is told. Getting it, she calls again, and waits 15 minutes on hold before someone tells her they'll do what they can to find someone, but it is rather late on a Saturday afternoon . . .
Meanwhile, I looked for a hammer in the toolbox, but found only screwdrivers, so, using the handle of one of them, I pounded the bent chrome flat against the wheel well, then began to haul the suitcases out of the trunk (again) in preparation for getting that damn spare back out to put on another tire! Flinging open the back door, I pretty much threw the luggage into the back seat. Mom prudently kept quiet about anything breakable.
Just as I finished this transfer, a couple stopped and offered their assistance. "No, that's okay," I said, "My mother called AAA and someone should be here soon". They gave me a curiously dubious look and reluctantly went on their way.
I returned to the car and we drank some hot water while we waited. And waited. And waited some more. Mom called AAA again and was told they are having a hard time finding anyone. It's now nearing 4:00 and we've been sweltering on the side of the road for about an hour. I decided I'd have to change the tire myself. I am woman, I am strong . . . all that crap.
Taking the little, temporary tire out of the trunk, as well as the piece of s**t they call a jack, I remove the hubcap and begin trying to loosen the lug nuts. A semi blows its air horn at me and, in the fine Naval tradition I have so easily slipped into, I shout a few choice words after him, punctuated by a universally known gesture. I don't think Mom saw or heard me, but I know several other people on the highway did!
Another car pulled over, and backed up along the side of the road, stopping in front of me.
All the warnings about not accepting help from a stranger on the road run through my mind, but the man who gets out looks nice, and by then, I wouldn't have cared if he had been a serial killer, as long as he could change a tire! He could and did, at great risk to himself, then refused the money I tried to force on him, backing away from it as if I was offering him a rattlesnake!
I'll skim over the first stop I made asking where I could get a tire and the vague directions I was given and go right on to the exit for Kuttawa/Eddyville that I finally found.
At a gas station in Kuttawa, I was told to go 2 miles down the road, the other side of the freeway. I did as I was directed and found, not a tire place, but another gas station, without a garage, and a Napa Auto Parts store.
Again I climbed out of the car, my face running sweat, my shirt glued to my skin and my white jeans filthy, and enter the Napa store. Walking up to the man behind the counter I said, "My mother and I are traveling from Wisconsin. My tire came apart. Where can I find a place to get another and have it put on?"
The man replied with something that sounded like it might be English: "Kuttawatahr. 'Bout three mile back. Top a the hell. Other sahd a the frayway."
"Three miles back? The other side of the freeway?" I said, latching on to the only words I thought I recognized.
"Yep. 'Ay'res an ol Shell station - empty. Kuttawatahr's next toot."
"But I was at the Shell station." I wearily replied.
"Nope, t'other 'un. Top a the hell. Kuttawatahr".
Well, I thought, I'll give it a try. It was nearing 5 o'clock now and soon anything that might have been open would be closing and we'd be stuck here for two days.
"What's the name of the place?" I stupidly asked, thinking he hadn't told me.
"Kuttawatahr," the man patiently said again.
A light suddenly dawned in my mind. "Kuttawa Tire?" I asked.
"Yep, Kuttawatahr," the man said, beaming at finally making this idiotic Northerner understand English.
Back in the car, and back down road. Under I24 again. See the Shell station - no tire place. But wait! Up ahead! A hill! I ascend the hill slowly, thinking that if there isn't a place uphere to get a tire, I'm going to go back and beat that guy with the loose tread off my ruined tire!
But there it was-Kuttawa Tire/Tahr. I pulled in, nearly fell out of the car in my exhaustion, removed my sunglasses to wipe away the sweat that had accumulated beneath them and plodded to the door, sure the place would be closed.
Instead, I was met at the door by a saint, who sat my Mom and me down on chairs in the cool office and told us not to be startled if we saw a baby raccoon - she was tame as a kitten (and she was!). Then, with his two young sons, I assume, he stayed open late to change my tire then neatly replaced the spare tire and the jack back into my trunk. He offered to reload the luggage in the trunk, too, but I told him never mind, just leave it in the back seat.
Then, with his and his kids' well wishes for a safe rest of the trip, Mom and I turned the car, once more, toward Nashville.

1998