How We Really Keep it Running You Should Know

I hate flying. Hate it. Such a hassle. Fighting traffic to the airport and finding parking. Then waiting in line to check in. Then waiting in another line where they make you empty your pockets and take off your jacket and shoes and belt and put everything into a tub for screening before you’re pointed into the Whizbang 9000 Deluxe Hijacker Detector to dutifully assume the position. Then there’s that one last line to wait in along with the rest of the herd when you finally board the plane. Moo. I’d probably enjoy the experience more if I flew first class but the cheapskate in me chokes at the expense, remembering the Oldsmobile Man’s observation that the nose of the plane gets wherever you’re going just as fast as the tail does so the ‘complimentary’ cocktails and snacks and marginally wider and deeper seats really weren’t worth the extra scratch. But exactly two weeks ago, as I inched through the expansive first class section of my plane then wedged my behind into my more-than-snug aisle seat back in coach I began questioning Pop’s sage advice. I shook off the thought, though. Didn’t matter. My ticket was bought and paid for and I already had enough on my mind as I buckled in and switched my phone to Airplane Mode. I was heading to Arizona again. Down to the house in Sunset Acres one more time. But this time would be different than all the rest. Very different.

This is Part Two of a three-part series. Click the link to read Part One.
It had been a glorious NoDak autumn Saturday morning for twelve-year-old me. I’d woken to a gorgeous orange-red sunrise and the cool prairie breeze drifting across my face as it blew through my opened window. All the birds outside were merrily greeting the day in song, all the robins and wrens and sparrows and meadowlarks and mourning doves, even the peacocks and ducks and geese and swans calling out from over at the Deaf School pond. I’d jumped out of bed and into my routine early, stripping off my pajamas and putting on my weekend duds before pouring myself a heaping bowlful of Lucky Charms then parking out on the living room couch to watch cartoons on our big thirty-six inch color console RCA. Four hours later—after Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner and the Jetsons and Scooby-Doo and Josie and the Pussycats and Archie and then Fat Albert—it was noontime and the Lucky Charms were long gone and I was hungry again so I’d decided to hop on my StingRay and ride across town to Grandma Lettie’s to see if she’d make me one of her world-famous fried bologna and Miracle-Whip sandwiches but when I got there she wasn’t home. Figured I’d wait for her a bit and headed out to her backyard to climb Big Olie, the giant oak she’d planted as a sapling fifty years ago when she first bought the house, but as I walked up to Olie’s trunk, I glanced across the way at Old Man Granger’s place and noticed something interesting—the walk-in door to his garage was ever-so-slightly ajar. Hm.