I LOVE A PARADE...sort of...

The 225th anniversary of Gardner, MA, and my Dad's in the purple convertible, at the front of The Parade...my LT. cop Little Bro is also on duty...with the rest of the town's police crew...at the end of the route. Me, I'm stuck, on a two inch curb, in lotus position, my back against my mother's knees, as she sits in her lawn chair, cheering for... everything. (Not much has changed in thirty-five years...)

The day began when one of my best buddies, Judy, showed up, morning-chirpy, as usual, just in from Connecticut, with husband and family in tow, waiting down the street for us. Her daughter, a beauty I was about to meet, accompanied her up the hill to 88 Maple Street, to rouse me from slumber and get my butt into gear for the Big Event.

My parents were delighted, as usual, to see Jude. My Mom gushed over her teen-aged daughter; my Dad shook everyone's hands; the dog shed and licked and jumped on any human she could wiggle between. (Meanwhile, my sister, the ER nurse, slept unperturbed in her daylightslumbershift, unaware and uncaring, behind closed doors. My other sister was well esconced in Marlboro, nursing a sick bf and hiding out. Cape Cod brother, twin to the Marlboro Maven, was busy with FEMA, somewhere in NE and had no time for parades--even if it was the biggest the town ever had and probably would have-- in our lifetimes. His family was happily digging clams and playing pirates, far from the maddening crowd. ) But, I was caught.

Now, on some level, even as I re-integrate into NE doings, a part of me was happy to be surrounded by friends, family, neighbors--all mostly sober, coherent and up for The Event. The weather cooperated by being at turns sunny and cloudy--offering enough warmth that one could sneak by with a sweatshirt but not broil under a wrathful sky. The Parade, itself, was handily passing right by the end of Maple Street. In fact, one of the big review stands,complete with local t.v. coverage, was set up exactly at the end of Maple Street. It was an easy walk--and left no excuses.

Judy had come to collect me, so I could walk just a wee bit farther and meet up with her parental units--whom I hadn't seen since escaping Gardner. I was nervous; though I knew they had liked me as one of Judy's close, high school buddies, that was then... Also down the street: Judy's husband of all the years I'd been away--the co-maker of their seven kidlets. We hadn't met and I was a bit torn about that intro. (I shouldn't have worried--about anything. The Karmic Road continues to unfold in front of me...)

AsI follow my willowy, blonde friend (and her raven-haired daughter) through the massing crowd, people are kind. Everyone allowing us safe passage. Balloons and flags--hundreds of flags--kids in strollers, elders in walkers, teens smiling (something that, even in Gardner, is rare)abound. No ipods in sight! No boom-boxes blasting from sidewalk denizens. No cars parked with their motors and stereos busting down the windows of the surrounding buildings. Not even screaming aircraft or ghetto birds overhead. I am getting honestly high from the small town vibes and excitement. It's both unnerving and energizing!

Then, I hear the rumors rippling through the crowd: They can't toss candy from the floats!
No beads or balloons, neither!
Faces, (not only of kids), begin to fall. I ask Judy if she knew the reasoning? (I mean, all our lives, parades in Gardner were filled with salt water taffy and penny candy and lollipops tossed-- sometimes literally-- at our heads, if not our collective hands.)
"Lawsuits--people around here are really into lawsuits these days..." Judy whispers sadly.

Before I become depressed, her Mother and Father see us. I am immediately thumped on the back, hugged, my arm held and not let go, kissed on both cheeks, hands shook and re-shook, and introduced to Judy's three sons (the others are serving in the military, overseas, bravely...)and husband. What a reunion! (What a relief! )Her sons are handsome and appropriately "cool", as only teen-aged boys forced downtown in their Mom's home turf, can be; her husband gives me some honest hugs and more honest laughs...we seem to be on a similar head vibe about (at least) obvious issues. (Plus, he's cute-- just a bit greyer than the photo of him and Judy I've had in my possession since college days. )But, in too swiftly moving minutes, the Gardner Fire Department screams a warning that the Big Event is about to descend upon downtown and I have to extricate myself from Judy's family-- to find my own. Waving good-bye, I begin the climb uphill, to Monument Park, and my Mom.

I am shocked to see people lining the hillside, and the park, four deep along the parade proper. However, people let me through...no grumbling....no shoving...no jockeying for position. (How unlike L.A. events where you can be knifed for brushing too closely against a stranger's back...however innocent the contact might be.) I keep reminding myself: this ain't L.A.

I scurry through the park, dressed in my black hoody and torn jeans, but now with proper NE hiking boots. (I am blending...slowly.) The park is as I remember it, back in the day. Now, though, a small, bandstand, painted with clouds (by the boy I played army and went fishing with, four decades back: Mark Lore) is at one end. I admire it for a flash, but have to keep moving. (Possibly I might just get a glimpse of the beginning of the parade, with all the politicos in town--including Dad--and then be able to sneak home...)

As I make it to the other end of the park, the announer bleats: "Here come the council members ..." And so they arrive.
Some of them, like Dad, in the driven purple convertible; others walking and shaking hands, like a St. Pat's Day extravaganza; some of them, like my cousin, have held other offices --including mayor--most of them I know from their families I'd grown up with. For me, it is this very weird,moving, blast from the past: like an army of soldiers from one's life, walking in front of one, just out of reach. A Twilight Zone episode...I shake it off and, when the break next comes between marchers and floats, I sprint across the street.

I find myself on the edge of Sacred Heart School--the setting of my most recent novel. Like a movie set--it roars up in front of me: the old convent, now used by everyone but nuns; the empty space where the red brick building loomed for the older students; the yellow brick "new building"-- no longer new, but the actual site of much of the action of the novel...o how I'd like access to those rooms...but the parade is building momentum and I have to look for Mom. (I'd promised.) Besides, I'd spent about forty minutes with Judy's family, downtown; it is only fair.

Passing hundreds of happy paraders, literally, a skinny arm snags my sweatshirt and I am pulled down, on to the curb.
"I almost didn't recognize you, K.K.!"
Mom's voice hollars above the crowd. She pushes her lawn chair backwards, leaving about two feet of sidewalk clear. Two older people, one on each side of her, grin, staring at me.
"You remember your old neighbors, the Fishischers,don't you?" Mom points to the people around her.
I sort of do. (Pretend I REALLY do.) Shake more congenial hands. They marvel at my almost white hair (no mention about the spikes nor blue sunglasses) and comment how I ,"still look the same--except of course, the hair !"
(I wonder how that is even possible--I was twenty when they last saw me--oh well.)
I plunk down on the two inch high curb,my hiking boots and short legs stretch in front of me, my butt on concrete. (At least it is in the shade.)
I notice the high percentage of Older People around me. I notice the civility of the lines and lines of Younger People, too. It seems most of the town's teens have been incorporated as "Civic Workers"--sporting flourescent yellow tee-shirts and camo pants. They are "keeping order" by walking up and down the Parade Route. Some of them have walkie-talkies. Most don't. (Is this the New Order in town? It's a little scary--but I can't let my imagination flow with that...maybe it's just a way to "Motivate Youth"? Hmmm....)

Pretty soon, horses, followed by Mummers, followed by Fife and Drums; elaborate floats float by; the community college with a huge inflatable globe; Habitat for Humanity :banging walls up on a flatbed and getting enormous cheers (Gardner has a Habitat for Humanity! Wowza!); sadder floats from some of the local churches, echoing the drab colors and severe settings of New England Spirituality at it's strictest--but still part of the parade--come in turn; a local gym, with free weights and elipticals, manned by two guys in Oakley glasses and buzzcuts, joined by NE- sized women, all working out to loud music; historical re-enactors marching in barefeet and shooting blunderbusses; all the VFWs and Eagles and Lions Clubs and Masons and every other civic group in Gardner; school children from the private schools and the public schools in town, their faces shiny and serious, until they see people in the crowd they know, then, enorous grins and waving; a few terrified dogs on leashes; Ronald MacDonald, or his faux counterpart, atop the highest float; a giant, ill-constructed birthday cake; the Michelin Man; antique autos; mini-cars; too many frighening "clowns"; and every once in a while, someone tossing handfuls of salt water kisses and penny candies across the asphalt and into the crowd--skittering low--a ton of it, bouncing off my new hiking boots, in the gutter.

Instead of a mad scramble, with people ripping the goodies from each other's hands, neighbors pass candy to neighbors and everybody shares...it is amazing and chilling to me. (Had I really been away from this reality for so long?) When the crowd breaks into "God Bless America" and no one seems to smirk or shake their head ironically, it hits me: This IS the REAL DEAL.

An organic, community farm passes out produce: apples from their trees.
"Only for the kids, sorry," they announce as they walk along the crowds.
(However, far as I can see, only adults actually reach their hands out for the fruit...)
One float passes out frisbees, but only to people they know--which causes some grumbling--but they pass by quickly. A contingent of Vietnam Vet motorcycle riders get a huge ovation ..and then my High School Wildcat Band...much larger than when I played flute in the 70's...but with the same repetoire--more heart than talent(Ever hope-filled.) boldly passes. The crowd roars its approval. (Other area bands perform, but none get the same applause.)
"GLORY TO GARDNER!" the crowd joins in unison, the song lifting on the cool wind.

I have to admit, a lump that isn't salt-water taffy grows in my throat. I see forty- thousand people , twice the size of the town, cheer, applaud, thump each other on the back, come together and honestly be entertained. It is showered on by the continual fall of golden and raspberry leaves, mixing with the confetti from the DJ float. (Gardner has a DJ?!) Scents of woodsmoke, lake water, mowed grass and apples permeates the crowd. (It is my past meeting with my present, in innocence; and I'm not yet too jaded to respect that.)

As the last canon blasts and the final clean-up-at-the-end-of-the-parade makes it's way down Central Street, everyone begins to disburse. No angry shoving. No mad dash for a parking lot. Just, people stretching, smiling, moving in clots and couples, happily away.

"Well, it wasn't the Rose Parade," Mom says, taking my arm even as I carry her lawn chair,
"but it was quite an Event."

I had to agree.

HIGHLAND HIGHS

The Highland Games are the largest of their kind, south of Canada. Or so I've been told by my entire family. They are the gathering of Scots from every clan--fully bedecked in their tartan regalia--practicing the games of strength and skill handed down from that wee, cold rocky island. The Games also fill the coffers of the town of Lincoln, NH, which closely resembles Scotland. And, my family has been in attendance for over a decade.

This is mostly do to the soon-to-be-reigning matriarch of the Minns Clan: my next-in-line sister, the psychiatric social worker ER nurse, Ann. Since I "ran away" thirty five years ago (as my Mother states to anyone who will listen), Ann has come into her own in the family and the family has become accustomed to depending on her for more than her share of...well...everything. Ann has been Celtic obsessed from birth...even when all we knew was that we were mega-Irish. Now, years later, with research methods vastly improved, we have come to discover that on my father's side of the family there is Scot's blood. (The Kelley's, from my Grandmother, are all Irish, indeed.) But alas, "Minns" comes from the Scots' clan, "Menzies". So, we are even more "mutts" than first suspected. The line goes like this: Scottish, Irish, Norwegian, Canadian-French-Native American (mostly hidden and talked about in dim whispers--except by me, the Bad Seed...).

When all of this was revealed to me whilst I was living in L.A., I was sure my father would be mortified. Far from it! Like any good Scotsman, he embraced the bagpipes, the kilts, the tartans, the knobby knees and crotch-covering-sporin where all good Bravehearts keep whatever they can't carry in their socks and belts. (I nearly puked when my little cop brother, Kev, came down the condo steps, bedecked in the black and white plaid that my clan has come to prefer over the more common red and green plaid of basic wear or the tablecloth plaid of red and white. Settled in his crotch area was the full, stuffed and preserved head of a poor badger--now made into a purse attached to a wide leather belt-- across his hips.)
"Don't freak--Ann got me an otter head last year--but the badger head goes better with our tartan!" Kev grinned.

And indeed, all weekend, I saw not only otter and badger heads, but feet and other parts, cleverly made into wearables. Scots are known for their hardiness, practicality and thrifty ways. (I guess, much like Indians, if you need something, you make it out of what is available.) Still, I can't deal with little otter heads bouncing on the vital areas of large, hairy men in skirts. Nor badger noggins, either. But, then, I am "the runaway".

We arrived up in Franconia Notch en masse. Both my sisters, and my sister-in-law, and myself. Ann gets the same condo each year from my niece's old orthodontist. It's right on the river. Literally. (With the mountains rearing up crisp and green, the leaves at the very tips of the maples beginning to be sprinkled with gold, one could well imagine being captive in the legendary Highlands of yore.) Ann had assured me that no one expected me to wear much beyond my usual jeans and black tee shirts--I was "so Californian now" that all Celtic toughness had melted away. However, I did purchase an authentic Minns/Menzies clan black and white- five- foot- sash and wore it the entire time. I also bought a hand wrought silver "torque". It has wild wolves heads on either end of twisted silver bands, woven into a crescent and worn, open-ended, facing the world, around the neck. The artist was a Scot and gave me the words: " The wolves are protector guides; they are fierce and lead one both out and into the world...this torque is more than a piece of jewelry--but I can tell by looking at ya, Lass, you already know that!" Aah, he knew how to make a sale--and with my spikey hair, blue sunglasses and black tee, I was the Californian runaway member of the clan, for sure.

So, costumed in my own way, I followed my fast-moving family through the weekend. I ate several kinds of lamb; potatoes and cabbage; shortbread and hard-boiled eggs rolled in crushed sausage. I drew the line at haggis. The organ meat of a sheep, stuffed with oatmeal, is not my idea of fine dining--however culturally correct. My sister and sister-in-law toddled off to the whiskey tasting--toddling back at dusk, on high-heels and the cold winds of the mountains.

At one point, a giant hawk swooped down just a foot in front of Ann as she calmly puffed a Marlboro on the deck. Crows had dive-bombed the larger raptor. It was trying an escape dive through the oaks. Ann barely blinked, but I was enthralled. The next evening, Ann tossed the remains of my "grinder" into the bushes, below, at the river's edge. I know she was hoping for the legendary black bears that roam the hills up there. Instead, a tiny red fox munched the salami and peppers, looking up as if to ask for some Parmesan to sprinkle on the treat.

Chipmunks scattered as we sprinted for the shuttle bus each morning. Song birds sang as we hiked back down the hill at the end of the day. My family knew each other's jokes as well as each other's buttons. I got lectured on the way I turned the thermostats up or down; walking faster no matter where we were headed; doing too many loads of laundry; staying up too late and getting up even later. I also got accused of hiding under Ann's good graces and being treated "special", because of being so newly returned to the fold. I was not allowed to pay for a single thing the entire outing nor to drive nor to cook nor even to load the dishwasher. They all have those rites down. I am still the strange "guest". The alien in the soup. The "runaway".
"Give it time," peacemaker cop Kev assures me as he polishes off the jug of merlot.

As I munched pancakes in the railroad car diner on the last morning there, watching the model train scream its little course above our heads, puffing steam and carrying miniature people forever in a large oblong, I had to agree.

"Can I have your bacon if you aren't going to eat it?" Bren asked sister-in-law Laurene.
"Bren, I'll order an extra side for you--Laurene's only got one strip on her plate," Ann offers, reasonably.
"I don't want a side of bacon!" rail-thin Bren hisses at Ann as if Ann has suggested hemlock.
"You can have my bacon, " Laurene pushes the wrinkled strip at Bren.
"I don't want your bacon--thanks..." Bren shakes her head.
"Waitress--can we have another rasher of bacon, please?" Ann flags down the woman.
"Ann--I said I don't want the bacon!" Bren scowls, adjusts her Italian dark glasses, sighs.
The waitress returns with four more strips and plunks them down between the girls.
No one touches the bacon.
When the waitress returns with the check, she starts to comment on the untouched meat, then, wisely, merely smiles.

I'm sure Ann tipped her very well.

LANDING IN THE LEAVES

The thunderstorm should have been the first indication. Or maybe waiting on the runway in Phoenix, without the air conditioning working, for over an hour, as the temp kept climbing past one hundred and ten...The businessman in the bolo tie and cowboy hat who whistled a one-note concerto might have offered another clue...flying home is not an easy thing to do.

As we finally descended in the rain, Manchester NH looming large, I was prepared: I had enough cash to get a motel room for the night and a credit card still able to rent a car the next morning. Beyond these facts, it was a crap shoot. We skidded to a slippery landing and I could sense the approaching autumn even through the steel plane walls.

It was cold. I had on short sleeves and rumpled jeans. My blue sunglasses were smeary. My eyes were red. Whatever spikes I had carefully arranged in my hair had long ago melted. It wasn't a bowl-cut, but it wasn't High Art, either. Man, would there even be a motel nearby at midnight? I cracked my neck. Then my knuckles. Then, I breathed out. At the bottom of the stair-case, ungrinning, grim, stood my brother, the cop, my sister the ER psych nurse and my eldest, red-haired niece.

The difference between coming back to family and coming back to friends is that family is there and insulted that you even thought of a back-up plan. Friends usually suggest you have one "just in case". I re-set my shoulders, forced a smile, and marched down the stairs. Beyond the airport lounge windows, the storm continued to rage.

It was now going on twelve hours since I loaded my duffle bag into the taxi at Detroit Street.
Gus, the super, was there to give me a hug and see me off. My elderly Carribean driver was tight-lipped as I explained we needed to get to Burbank at lunch hour, but we made it. I slipped the baggage guy a twenty and was escorted right through to the boarding gates. All had been relatively well until Phoenix. But Phoenix was hours ago and a whole continent away.

The three walked in relative silence, in front of me, through the parking structure. My feet were numb from cramped sitting and the exit aisle on the plane. I also began to realize: everyone in NE walks at least twice as fast as I do. Old people. Cripples. Babies. Even the dogs seem to be energized. I'd taken off my watch and packed it away so I wasn't sure what time it was on either end of the country. But my body felt like it was the wee hours and my head was just a whining migraine.

Suddenly, just as my brother opens his SUV and I crawl the two feet up into it's back row, we hear voices. Two cars down: a luxury vehicle shining like a new knight is being busted into by an airport maintenance guy and being overseen by a thirtysomething business type in an Armani suit, thousand dollar shoes and designer eyewear. He clutches his cell and is screaming into it. Around us, the parking structure is all but deserted.

"I think he's locked out," Ann, the ER nurse nods to Kev, the cop-brother.
The niece nods, backing up Ann's assessment.
"It's not my problem--I'm off duty--it isn't even my state!" Kev moans, slamming the driver's door. We all know he will help.
Ann walks with Em, the niece with the long legs and red mane, backing up Kevin.
I sit, trying to numb out the pain, the exhaustion, the dehydration and the hunger. I suddenly realize, I haven't eaten nor drunk anything since Phoenix...
Outside the SUV, the business dude's voice is raised and irritated. He's yelling at the maintenance guy. The maintenance guy is clearly relieved at the arrival of my super-hero rescuing familia.
I rub my eyes, wondering who is orchestrating my life...

Fifteen minutes later, both the maintenance guy and my cop bro are using every "break in" tool on the back of the maintenance truck to no avail. Meanwhile, the businessdude remains half screaming into the phone and half screaming at the other men not to scratch his "new car".
Finally, I can't stand it. I grab my Blackberry, my triple A card, and hop out.
I must enter this family any way I can...
"Hey, you can use my auto club card...or my Blackberry...they'll send someone out in like fifteen minutes....we need to get home...I've been on the road traveling since this morning, man. I'm beat..." I wave the blue and white card in the air.
"Who are you?" the businessdude demands, scowling.
"My sister," Ann says.
"My sister," Kev sighs.
"I'm the Big Sister. Why don't you call triple A and get this over...we need to leave!" I plead.
"My Auntie," Em smiles.
The businessdude neither thanks me nor acknowledges the simple plan.
He goes back to screaming into his cell.
My brother and the maintenance guy go back to fooling with the gerry-rigged coathanger and break in tool.
I try again. This time, nobody is even looking at me.
Finally, Ann turns to face me. " He called the road service and they sent the airport maintenance dude...he works at both places."
Even Ann can see the absurdity.
"I called the road service!" Suddenly businessdude is angrily reiterating this fact.
"Is it triple A?" I try to remain civil.
He doesn't reply, turning his back.
"He's a nice man, really, Auntie K.K." Emily shrugs.
Yeah.
Maintenance guy looks up and explains that the businessdude did not call triple A. He called his prepaid Audi dealership and that's how airport maintenance was called in. No one else around this late...
"Triple A is always around..." I point out. No one is listening.
Twenty more minutes of curses. Emily is texting friends all over the state. Ann is smoking her second pack of Marlboros. Kev and the maintenance dude keep promising us that it is "just another inch!" and swapping stories of better tools in better scenarios.
I can't stand it.
It's just too much. We are passing one o'clock in the morning and on top of everything else, I have to pee...
"In L.A., you know what a cop would do about now?" I say loudly enough everyone looks over.
"In about a second, his nightstick would come out and your back window would come down in pieces. Reach in, grab keys, and you'd be out of everyone's hair....you do have insurance, right?" I am not proud but I am truthful.
Businessdude splutters, fumes, faces the other two men for support. They have had enough,f inally, of his attitude.
"She's right, " maintenance guy goes to his truck, looking for a crowbar.
"She's right, man," my little sixfootfour brother says," you got insurance, right?"
Even Ann is done. She rolls her eyes. Stubs out her cigarette. Puts her arm around Emily's shoulders and walks to the still-waiting SUV.
"Good-luck," Kev waves to the airport man," Sorry I wasn't more help."
"No worries," airport maintenance sighs, then turns back to the ever fuming business dude and suggest calling...like...maybe triple A????

Inside the SUV, Ann checks her watch. "Too late to get dinner at a restaurant on the way back," she shakes her head.
"Mickey D's ?" Kev grins, gunning the engine.
"If there's one open this late..." Ann lights another cigarette, blowing smoke out her window.

We drive past the two men. Emily gives a wee wave.
"He was a nice man, really, Auntie K.K.," she texts someone in the dark.
"I bet he was," I close my eyes, suddenly realizing, it isn't raining anymore.

I have landed.

LANDING IN THE LEAVES

The twelve hour journey was complete with thunder and lightning ripping across the wings of the jet. I decided not to take it as a warning...Instead, I clutched the edges of my seat, closed my weary eyes and focused on the fact that at least the air-conditioning was finally working.

We had been left to broil on the Phoenix runway, between stops. Even the Captain was roasting when we finally managed to move away. The new passengers boarding from Phoenix were griping about the sauna, inside, but they hadn't been experiencing it first hand for the last hour. I tried to keep what little cool was left as the businessman with the string tie and cowboy boots kept whistling and loading over-sized carry-ones over my head.

The thunderstorm was the first time I've ever flown in totally frightening weather. Somehow, what was outside the plane's windows wasn't as scary as what was running amok in my head. What the Hell was I doing, interrupting my adult life and suddenly re-winding back to New England? Gardner,no less! The economy there was just as bad as CA,or so my sibs had warned me. Gardner was a tiny furniture making town with the furniture factories transformed into homes for the elderly. All the large industries had moved off. Only WalMart had infiltrated and continued to grow. (Could I exist as a WalMart clone? Had it come to that?)

The plane dipped, suddenly, and the cowboy businessman with the piercing one-note grunted.

"Sorry folks, I am trying to find a pocket of calmer air..." the Captain's strained voice broke into my cloudy thoughts. Right. Me too. Calmer air, all around.

The sibs seemed finally resigned to the fact that it was time for me to re-insert my raggedy self into their midst,no matter how much time had passed nor memories gone unshared. I had resigned myself to accepting whatever Purgatory they wanted to inflict, in order to be tolerated. It was true, I had missed the entire childhoods of my nieces. I had missed the life changes and touchstones of my brothers and sisters, as they eked out their own karmic adulthoods. I had even skipped the aging of the Parental Units--something both inevitable and slightly horrifying. (Most shocking was how unchanged both parents actually seemed to be...if my life follows their genetic maps, I have to find some decent investments!) But, it had been my decision. My choice. This was on no one's head but my own.

My stomach shifted into a final lurch as we descended into Manchester, along with the rain.

The difference between friends and family is that one might always need a backup plan when arriving at midnight, at an airport and relying on the kindness of peers--however, with family, at least my family, no backup plan is necessary. Somebody will meet you at the gate. Maybe not smiling. Maybe not in the best mood, but, they WILL meet you at the gate.

I tried to wipe the sweat off my face, apply some neutral lip gloss, spike up my wilted spikey hair. I sucked in my middle-aged paunch and tried to think about the re-entry. This was a new wilderness for us all. The return of the failed artist...into the arms of the middle-aged nest...with nothing to show for her arrival except rumpled clothes and a splitting head-ache.

They didn't even ask how the flight had been. The midnight rainstorm was its own answer.

In the parking garage, we had almost made it to my cop brother's SUV when we heard two men with cell phones and raised voices, arguing, outside a high end AUDI. My brother sighed, seeking his own vehicle, wanting to begin the two hour drive back to MA. My ER nurse sister pointed her cigarette over the SUV and in the direction of the arguing men. "I'm off duty --it isn't even my home state, geez!" Kev turned around, dropping my duffle bag, and walked in the direction of the guys. Ann followed. My eldest niece was next in line.

I had enough "stuff" for a month. I crawled into the car and just tried to breathe. Pray. Then, Ann came back.

"They locked themselves out. One guy is trying to hook the lock with a wire hanger. The other guy is yelling at him..." Ann puffed her cigarette in disgust.

Then, she went back to the scene.

I waited fifteen minutes. I was freaked out with no one to vent to about the flight; my losses in L.A.; my dehydration migraine nor the fact that I hadn't eaten anything but a banana at six a.m. Still, my family of rescuers was intent on rescuing these two men in the parking garage, now half-past midnight.

I pulled my Blackberry out of my pack. I pulled my AAA card out of my wallet. I had no more truck, but I had a fully paid upper tier membership. I walked over to the crowd.

The guy who owned the AUDI was almost a stereotype--Armani suit, expensive hair cut, thousand dollar hand-made shoes; designer eyewear. He clutched his own cell against his ear and the rescued Owners Manual from his trunk. (I didn't even want to ask how he got into the trunk.)

"I have a triple A card. You can use my card to call... " I hold it up.

"Kev almost has the door open," Ann tells me, watching my brother maneuver the coat hanger and another tool up and down, uselessly.

"Dad! You almost have it!" my niece encourages.

The maintenance man, who had begun the rescue operation, cheers my cop brother on.

Of course, this doesn't work.

"I have a triple A card. You can use my cell to call them--" I try again.

"Look, Lady, who are you?" the owner