By Lynna Clark

My friend Ann picked me up in the Red Rocket. She’s a sturdy ol’ gal. I’m speaking of the 1995 convertible. Bless her heart. She’s got a lot of miles on her but she’s still so much fun.

We tooled down the road toward another friend’s new home out in the country. When we realized we were on Old Concord instead of Faith Road, my driver whipped the car around in the road. The Red Rocket was now pointed in the opposite direction.

Soon we came to a four way stop. Remembering the wisdom of Kent Bernhardt, Ann prepared the universal sign of displeasure while I locked eyes with the man to our right. Of course we’d arrived at exactly the same time. Technically he had the right of way. But something Kent forgot to include in his instruction is the Southern Gentleman Factor. The nice man politely nodded in our direction.

“Punch it Margaret!” I directed my driver. She did so never having to deploy the recommended sign. For that I was thankful. Since we didn’t have the top down and my current medication gives me terrible power surges, suddenly I was hot: and not in a good way.

Dang hormone therapy.

Okay… so it’s old age and my glasses fogged up. I sipped the ever present Gingerale I carry due to my “condition.”

“Can I have some air?” I asked as I fiddled with the buttons on the dashboard.

She stuck her finger in a hole and tried to turn the missing non-knob. I’m just glad the hole she tried was not a cigarette lighter or her glasses might have fogged up too. Anyway, after a bit we decided to roll the windows down. Apparently the Red Rocket is not used to such hot women.

It felt good to visit our friend who is building her new house. Ann and I yacked like a couple old hens all the way there and back. She confessed that she just found out she has a cataract. Silently I thanked God that when things get foggy for me I can still take my glasses off.

“There’s Brandon!” I pointed at a truck sitting at a stop sign. Once again Ann whipped the Red Rocket around in a very questionable U-turn. She is related to my son-in-law and wanted to catch up. “Call him!” she directed.

“Uh… he’s a plumber. I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk to his mother-in-law in the middle of a busy work day.”

Ann continued to follow the black truck with the big silver tool box making at least six turns behind him into a new development. Before I knew it we were parked beside of him with our windows down. I looked at the man who was now blocked in his truck by the Red Rocket.

“OH! Sorry…” I mumbled.

He wasn’t Brandon.

“Punch it Margaret!” I instructed my getaway driver. She did so and we found ourselves at a muddy dead end with very little space to turn around. That small fact did not deter my friend. With the skill of a NASCAR driver she eased between construction vehicles and somehow pointed us once again in the correct direction. A few moments later we rode past the stranger in the black pickup with the silver tool box… again. He looked at us rather oddly.

I can’t imagine why.

I just hope the story he tells his wife includes something about two hot chicks in a red convertible that chased him down. Though we were not in a flatbed Ford, perhaps he will envision himself on a corner in Winslow Arizona. If I were him, I’d leave out the part where neither old lady could see past her nose.

Yep, we’ve got a lot of miles on us. Thank God we still know how to have fun.