Me a Pretty Brunette in a BMW Convertible—and a Few Nazi’s—a Fairly True Tale

who took time to read my current hub about a girl named Lisa Herring and why I wondered about things that cannot be controlled and life after my graduation. Who in their right mind would read such tripe? I am completely-serious. It’s a wonder that I was told by the HubPages staff to NOT keep up the good work followed by, “I” was in dire need for a vacation, at least two years in length in some far-away locale where there are no loud noises, nosy strangers, and annoying telemarketers.

I do not think that I am asking too much here. I mean. I think (this might be my worst mistake) that 98% of the people who write for HubPages are very gifted writers. With me? I fall into the 2% of those writers who struggle for the next phrase.

All stupidity aside, this is a SERIOUS piece. About me. Sorry that I could not pay someone to write this in proxy, because I am almost broke and there are not enough fools left around to take that dangerous risk. Bravo, to them anyway!

in 2006, a true man among men, my dad, passed away. He was 90. And every year of his age were filled with full and rich days. I could say the same about my mother. Honestly, I do not see “how” she managed to stay married to my dad for 68 years—I just wrote it off as being a case of true love. Enduring might be more like it.

What does this piece have to do with the headline? Just wait. You will get to sink your teeth into “that” sure-fire, nerve-tingling suspense that would cause any Diamond Back to scamper for a hiding place. I have never met a Diamond Back, nor do I ever have such a desire. But now with a bit of careful-thinking, I am sure that what you are about to read from here to the end, would scare the fangs off of such beautiful snakes—I hear that a guy in Texas catches them by the pick-up load and sells them for $2,400.00 each, not a pick-up load. The story went on to say that his main customer is some famous cowboy boot brand, which shall remain nameless.

I was 12 when my grandpa James, my dad’s dad, passed away. My grandma, Ida, who soon followed James. And there wasn’t six months between their departures and to be frank, I did not know how to define, but understand dying as in “kicking the bucket,” “buying the farm,” and other fanciful euphemisms. All I knew is that my grandparents were gone from sight, but not the memory. In latter years, I came to find out that my grandpa James didn’t like me, but I managed to live with that awful fact.

It wasn’t like waking up one morning and thinking, I think I’ll cause my grandpa James to turn on me and glare at me like I was a convict.

The reason for grandpa James’ affliction of always trying to control what I did. Little did I realize that he had a bad case of O.C.D. which means Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, which had not been discovered in 1965, but I felt good about grandpa James being a true pioneer of O.C.D., so with that piece of discussion solved, we can go further.

I leave you with this example: when my parents (who both had jobs to hold down) would leave me with grandpa James and grandma Ida, because they didn’t have a choice, every time I would go outside and play, grandpa James would lurk behind trees, behind the house to just know what I was doing.

Here is a sample of the dialogue between grandpa James and myself:

Grandpa James (very angry): “Just what are you doing there?”

Me (startled) :”Just playing. That’s all, grandpa!”

Grandpa James (loudly):”Well, stop it. You might break something!”

Me (holding my ground):”Break something? What, the ground?”

Now do you understand in complete terms why I could never enjoy a loving relationship with grandpa James. To be very frank, grandma Ida was more understanding when grandpa James would be taking his daily nap on the living room couch and had a certain amount of freedom to talk with me.

to this spine-tingling, bone-chilling tale, you will understand my inner-most thoughts and feelings long about the day that my mother called me at 5 a.m., on the day that my dad passed away and even with that sad day, I did not cry until the evening. I knew that I would never see my dad again, at least here in this life. But I also knew that I would meet him again when we would meet in a place where death is deemed as an intruder.

Then out of the blue, while I was talking to one of my monthly-pain management meeting, my Nurse Practitioner asked how I felt about my dad passing away to which I quickly replied, oh, I guess it will be fine. Death is the second cousin of life. Something clever I thought.

I had thought wrong. She informed me that I needed to take some Grief Counseling and that was when I asked, what is this Grief Counseling thing? She smiled and said, don’t worry. It will make you much better. Frankly, I did not realize that something was the obvious about something being wrong with me.

arrived and I signed the Patient Register. The receptionist told me that my wife would not be permitted to attend these sessions and I asked why? She informed me that it was “I” that was to be counseled, not my wife. Talk about luck. Naaah. She’s a good scout.

But I was terrified as we sat in the waiting room. The thoughts of Nazi Brainwashing and LSD Experiments on Men and Monkeys ran through my mind and these thoughts were the nice thoughts. I just knew that me, having never to be counseled, I did not know what was in store for me. Are you with me so far?

I was nearing the time of my appointment. Then the counselor walked into the waiting room and called my name and when I viewed her, my mouth flew open. And was so glad that my wife did not see that spectacle. This counselor was in the same description as a female C.I.A. agent—in how she dressed, walked and talked so firm and articulately. I was shaking in my shoes. I had to sit for one hour with this counselor and do what? That was what I was afraid of. Again, the thoughts of Russian Propaganda on Turning Mankind into Mindless Slaves (among other thoughts) hit me and my head was moist with sweat.

very-engaging counselor staring eye-to-eye with me and not flinching whatsoever. I have to confess. I was about to come apart at the seams. But for some reason, the counselor started writing, but never bothering to ask me any questions about the death of my dad. Yes. I was having flash-backs about Nazi’s Taming Amazon Gorilla’s to Overtake America, when the counselor said . . .

“We have got about fifteen-minutes left on your first hour, so would you like to talk about your feelings concerning the death of your dad?”

“Well, I really do not know to give you an organized set of thoughts. I am sorry.”

“Son, you have watched too many counselor TV shows, so what are you feeling right now?” The counselor said.

“Well, I am very nervous—since I have never been in this situation before, so please look over me.” I stand very sternly. But I was only being truthful.

“Congratulations, Kenny. You have made a small break-through. I will see you next week,” as she got up and we shook hands leaving me feeling lost and without any reason to fear this woman who I was so impressed with the many degrees hanging on her walls.

with this very open and very intelligent counselor, she said that if there were any question that I should ask her and for the life of me, I didn’t understand her logic. So with little thought, and no sign of Nazi’s Working Undercover as Taxi Cab Drivers in San Diego, I opened up with the one question that I wanted to ask—and this counselor told me that what she and I talked about was comparable to the lawyer/client confidentiality, so I opened up with my question:

“So back where my wife and I live, I am standing on any given street corner not really doing anything out of the normal, just standing there contemplating which restaurant that I should take my wife for dinner. Right now, I began to feel at ease. This might have been a ploy (by the counselor) to see how open I felt toward talking with her. I really didn’t know, but it felt right.

“All of a sudden, I began. “there is this gorgeous woman and when I say gorgeous, I tell you that Ann-Margaret and Liz Taylor looked liked dogs compared to (this) woman near my age bracket and smiling so pretty. She is driving this BMW convertible with a Lynyrd Skynyrd CD blaring away and I, being a southern gentleman, asked, “are you lost? Can I give you directions?”

“Wy’ no, but I want to ask you ONE question,” this gorgeous woman began. Needless to say, I was like a piece of iron and she was a strong magnet. I apologize for the analogy.

“I am looking for you to get in this car and go with me WITHOUT any questions—and I have more wealth than you or your grandchildren will ever spend. You name it and it is yours, including this car. I have a garage full where I live in South Carolina. I tell you something, all I want is for you to be happy. Talk to me and I promise to NEVER ask you one thing.” she added.

“ . . .and all I need to do is . . .”

She interrupted.

“Get in and ride away. That’s it. I like you and I knew if I looked long enough that I would find just the man I wanted to share my life with you,” she said.

I was frozen with fear. Then my thoughts were about my wife of 40+ years and our grand-kids, our friends, then no more Nazi’s With a Secret Potion to Turn Mankind Into Machines . . .but ONE serious decision that was left up to me to take the gorgeous brunette sitting behind the wheel of this red BMW convertible, with Lynyrd Skynyrd blaring their signature song, “Free Bird,” still. What was I to do right here. Right now?

And there it was. And wasn’t, in one pressured, vacuum-filled moment of indecision. All I had to do was get into this gorgeous blond’s car and go. Nothing could be more simple. Sure, my actions would cause a lot of people a lot of love and disbelief at what I was thinking about doing. What to do? What to do?

Our counseling session was now moving on very openly and smoothly.

At last report, I am still standing on that street corner. No Nazi's at all.

March 11, 2019_________________________________