Aunt Effie and the Pink Plymouth

HP ?, K -^¿rt J C: \ oía»»««> 'as» Aunt Effie and the Pink Plymouth by Jason LeMay (O 6) Like most everyone else, I have family reunions, better known as relatives who, for one reason or funerals, I had never known where she another, are not well known and don't was living. As luck would have it, one get visited very often. I usually at- day I ran into her at one of those hantributed this to my being very busy at dy little gas stations combined with doing nothing, which was usually time markets which are not so handy. It had consuming and gratifying work for been nearly a year since our previous those times when one is on a non- reunion, which was on the occasion of productive binge. Aunt Effie was one my grandfather's demise. We were of these probably lonely relatives I quite glad to see one another; and I undertook to visit one day. They had asked what they were doing in my end moved earlier, and although I had of the woods, since at last count, they seen this particular Aunt Effie at our lived in quite another county several 33 miles distant—a long haul for a loaf of bread and a dozen eggs, to say the least. I was informed that they had moved to a nice brick house out on Baptist Camp Road, a likely name. Well, I prided myself on knowing every back road in my country, but alas, 'twas not so. Primed for adventure , my copilot (who always got called Hoot whether he liked it or not) and I prepared a flight plan. I am not sure why he was always called Hoot, but it was a fact nonetheless. We set out to find this elusive aunt named Effie. With instructions every bit as vague as our intentions were good, we set out. (Without aiming to get ahead of my tale, I must report that we did pass by the fountain of youth and the lost city of Eldorado on this trip). With the wind in our faces and the sun at our backs and a full tank of gas the prospects were good. And since Hoot made bigger claims to knowledge of back roads than I, we had no worries—or this was the general idea at any rate. Our careful flight plan was as follows: leave Smokey Fork, our base of operations on this supposed milkrun, head for the new hardware store. It all sounded easy so far. Turn right at the Three Legged Dog, go to Slippery Rock, and turn left and follow this road until we reach our destination. We would find this house easily enough. It was in a big curve just before the road ended. She had warned us that if we got to the big rock that looked like a bear or a big bear that looked like a rock if you were drunk, we had gone too far. It looked good on paper, but so did New York's inner city. Just as planned and on schedule, we turned left at Slippery Rock and drove and drove. No curve, no brick house with an oak tree and a tricycle in the yard. No sign that read Baptist Camp Road or any other sign. But not to panic, Hoot immediately reassured me he had never been lost. He did admit to being powerfully confused for thirteen days once back in 79. This was number two for Hoot. Well, following this road to a huge four way stop, we did the likely thing—stop. "Have you ever seen this before?" "Not sober or that I remember," I prodded. "Me either. I think our education is sadly lacking." "Hoot, you are a regular fountain of utterly amazing and amusing information." "Okay, Slick, I'm just the pilot. You're the navigator. What do you suggest? She is your aunt." "A strong cup of coffee?" "Any idea ofwhich direction to go to get one?" "Well, the sun comes up over there, and the wind is blowing that way, and my cigar is still lit, so I suggest a left." "That's pretty complicated...