“Can I borrow your car?” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Mine’s not reliable,” he said.

“Which one?” I said.

“What?”

“Which car do you want to borrow, the Subaru or the Infiniti?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

My son was being polite.

“Your choice,” I said.

“The Subaru then,” he said. “I’m in charge of the music at the wedding. You’re coming, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“The wedding’s at Log Haven in Millcreek canyon,” he said. “It might snow.”

“The Subaru is a good choice then,” I said. . .

The wedding was lovely. We left after the bride and groom danced, but before they cut the cake.

The road was covered with snow on the trip up the canyon, but it was clear as we started back down. I wasn’t driving fast, no more than 25 or 30 miles per hour. We came around a corner, and I felt the car losing traction, I knew instantly it was black ice, and not just a little. It was like finding yourself on an Olympic sized ice rink when you thought you were in an easy chair just watching the show. I was having trouble keeping the car on the road. The car skidded to the right, I steered right, the car skidded left I steered left, but still no traction. We continued to gain speed. Gravity, and the ice were working together and not to our benefit. A car came around the corner up the canyon. I could see the terrified look on the passenger’s face as we passed just inches a way. I thought we might end up in the creek. I thought we might even roll if we went over the embankment. I thought, this is serious.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join together this car and this bridge abutment.

We survived. The damage to the car was considerable while we escaped with minor injuries. The seat belts may have saved our lives.

A county sheriff told us we were the only ones to have trouble with the ice. He came down the canyon just minutes after us and didn’t encounter any black ice. We should have stayed for the cake cutting.

The news of our close call spread rapidly. A few days later I heard from my cousin.

“I heard you were in an accident,” she said. “ I’m so glad you are ok. Do you remember the tale Granddad B liked to tell about black ice?”

“I don’t,” I said.

Dad was coming home and hit a patch of black ice, slammed into a cow that rolled over the windshield, smashing the roof on its way over. By the time he got home, a neighbor had already gotten through on the party line to tell Granddad about the accident. ‘Course the tale had been a bit garbled by the time Granddad heard it. In the version he heard, it was a guy was hit.

Dad came home, and was asked “Is it true Son? Did you hit him?” My dad laughed and said, “I think it was a she, but yep, I sure did. She rolled right over the windshield, and she’s sure enough dead all right!” He laughed again, and said, “but it’s ok, the car’s a bit dented but drives ok.”

I went to the salvage yard today to recover some personal items from the Infiniti. The insurance company said it was totaled. The change was gone, but the CDs, a sunshade for the windshield, a scrapper for ice and snow, miscellaneous receipts, an air gauge, and a Swiss army knife were still there. It was opening the trunk when the memories flooded back. The bumper sticker told the story. Obey Gravity it’s the law.

I picked up a new car today a Hyundai Elantra, the bargaining was fierce. I offered, he counter offered, I added features that he should include at the same price, he agreed but only on the condition that I buy him a box of Twinkies®.

“What color have you decided on?” he said.

“I’d go with the red, but police ticket red cars more often than others,” I said.

It’s a myth, he said.

“Okay, red then,” I said, “but you pay for any tickets.”

I returned a few days later to complete my part of the bargain, the Twinkies®.

“Thanks,” he said and laughed. “How are you liking your car?”

“I like it,” I said.

“Got any tickets yet?” he said and smiled.

“No, no tickets,” I said, “but a patrol car has been following me ever since I left your lot last week.”

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“Can’t believe what?” he said.

“I’m getting gray, my hair is turning gray,” she said.

He reached out and touched her hair, “I know,” he said.

“Yes of course that, but also down there,” she said, and looked down.

“Down there,” he said.

“Yes down there,” she said.

“I guess our hair turns gray wherever it is,” he said. She laughed.

He laughed and started singing—the old gray mare she ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be. . .

She frowned, and then she smiled, and then they laughed.

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My accidental entry into a life of crime started ordinarily enough. . .

“Do you need anything from the store?” I asked. “We’re out of diet-coke. I’m going to get some. I’ll pick up some bread and cat litter too. Anything you’d like me to add to the list?”

“Buttermilk,” she said in an uncharacteristically insistent tone, “A small carton of buttermilk. And if you come home without it you’ll be taking me out to dinner.”

I sometimes forget an item or two when I go shopping.

I like going out to dinner, but I didn’t want to go today. I was reading “How to Breathe Underwater” a collection of short stories by Julie Orringer and wanted to get back to it.

When I got to the store, I headed straight for the dairy department and put the buttermilk, a small carton, in my cart.

Next, I headed for the bakery department. Everyone’s favorite place. And today the scene of the crime. When I got there, it was gridlock and no traffic cops in sight. There were carts parked everywhere.

I parked my cart walked over and picked up a couple of loaves of bread. I went to the next aisle and picked up some cat litter. I skipped the paper products and frozen food sections and turned into the beverage aisle and picked up the diet-coke.

As I left the aisle, an old lady, a loaf of bread tucked under her arm, came around the corner without her cart.

She walked straight to the nearest store employee, poked him in the arm, and said, “Someone stole my cart.”

“What?” he said.

“Are you deaf,” she said. “Someone stole my shopping cart, what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll help you find it,” he said. “But we might have to get you a new one. Someone might have accidentally taken it.”

“What kind of an asshole steals an old lady’s cart?” she said, and poked him again.

I started laughing. Yes, what kind of asshole would steal an old lady’s cart, I thought.

I finished up in the produce department adding Brussels sprouts, broccoli, oranges and bananas to my shopping cart and headed for the checkout.

When I got home I put the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and headed back to my favorite chair and to my book.

A minute later my wife said, “Where’s the buttermilk?”

“It’s in the bag,” I said. “Are you blind?”

“No it’s not,” she said “and since when did you start buying Metamucil?”

“Metamucil, I didn’t buy any Metamucil,” I said.

“Then what’s this?” she said. “And come in here and show the blind lady the buttermilk.”

I reluctantly got up and went into the kitchen.

I looked in the bag. There was no buttermilk. There was however a canister of Orange Smooth Texture Sugar Free Metamucil, 220 teaspoon doses.

“You’ll never believe what happened,” I said.

“You can tell me at the restaurant,” she said.

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“What are you doing?” she said.

“I’m writing my name on my chair,” I said.

She said nothing, but I knew she was waiting for an explanation, and she wasn’t going to wait much longer.

“Somebody will steal it if it doesn’t have my name on it,” I said.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again.

“We’ve lived in this house for over 30 years, and you’ve never lost a chair,” she said.

“Mary Margaret, didn’t have her name on her chair and someone took it,” I said.

“Mary Margaret, who the hell is Mary Margaret?” she said.

“She works in Alan’s office,” I said.

“Oh, this is Mary’s chair at her workplace you’re talking about.”

“I work at home sometimes,” I said as I took a rag and wiped my name from the chair.

She audibly exhaled turned and left.

I know how Mary Margaret feels, I thought, and started to cry.

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I shave in the shower. I like the way the hot water, and the steam, and the soap combines to soften my whiskers before I shave. I used to do the shaving without a mirror; I was confident in my ability. I don’t do that anymore. It’s not that I think I have less skill, but I’m now more aware of the dangers of sharp blades, and tender skin, and not watching what you’re doing while your doing it. So now I have a mirror attached to the wall of the shower with a suction cup. The mirror is always fogged up by the time I get around to shaving and so I have to clear it before I begin.

I have a system in the shower, I soap myself and making sure I don’t miss any cracks, rinse and repeat. I follow that with shampoo, briskly working up a lather, and then I rinse, and repeat. The second time through I work a little of the shampoo into my beard to soften it up some more, and then I begin shaving.

I have a razor with five blades, one blade for each decade I’ve been shaving. I begin with the sides, usually left then right, followed by above the lip and then below paying particular attention to my chin. The whiskers on my neck get an upward stroke except on mornings when I remember the Danny Glover character Murtaugh in the movie “Lethal Weapon” teaching his son Nick to shave going with the grain. On those mornings, I take a few downward strokes following the course laid out by the LA police. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the law.

A few days ago I figured it out why my shaves are getting better. I read on the internet a bit on short-term memory. It, the short-term memory, apparently gets worse as you get older. You know, you walk into a room and can’t remember why you’re there, or you go to the store for a single item and return with everything but that item.

I’m now reasonably sure that some mornings I’m shaving more than once, which means I’m probably washing my hair more than once, and soaping myself down more than once. Maybe that’s why my skin is so dry and why I’m using more lotion.

I’m going to the store later today to get some lotion. I’ll put it on my list . . .

I arrive at the store. I have my list right here in my back pocket. Wait, I have the list right here in my shirt pocket.

Damn!

“Honey, I’m at the store. There is a grocery list on the table, yes the kitchen table, can you read it to me.”

“What, yes I know there is only one item on it. Yes, I know with one item it’s not really a list.”

“Lotion, thanks.”

I wonder what would have happened if my wife hadn’t been at home. I would probably have had to go home for my list. But, she was there and I got the lotion, but it was a close shave.

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