This Is Not My Car

These are not my keys. (Well, of course they aren't. Anyone who knows me knows I don't drive Fords.)



May I just say again: I love where I live.



Last week, I went to my favorite local orchard and picked up a half-bushel of peaches and a box of tomatoes. It's a place I have gone for six years now. I know them and they know me. At least, we know each other's faces.



When I got back to my car with my booty (the pirate-type booty, not the Beyonce-type booty -- AS IF!!!), I pulled on the door handle of Underdog (that's the name Katie gave the Sonata) and it didn't budge. I tried all four door handles. Nothing. I peered in the window and there, happy as clams, were my car keys AND my cell phone. For some inexplicable reason (maybe delirium brought on by the anticipation of fresh peaches), when I got out of the car, I locked it. Something I never do. Heck, I don't even remember to lock my house door at night. (Well... I guess I will need to from now on since I've essentially just taken out an internet ad volunteering my availability for burglary - geesh!)

There I stood in the heat with no way into my car and no means of calling anyone who would care to help. Unlike some women who bat their eyes and look helpless, I really don't pull off the 'damsel in distress' fashion statement very well. That may explain why I don't tend to run into too many Knights in Shining Armor.

I went back up to the orchard office and explained my plight. I was going to ask for a phone to call The Captain. His was one of the few numbers I have memorized. Most everyone else is dutifully entered into my Contacts on my cell phone... which was currently sticking out its proverbial tongue at me through the windshield. As I explained my plight to the woman there, she said simply, "Here, take my car and drive home. You've got a spare key there, right? Just go get it and come on back to get your car."

Who does that??? Certainly no one in San Diego, California where I was raised. She didn't even know my name (well, until she looked at the check I had just written for the fruit). But there she was, calling me honey, telling me not to worry and handing me her car keys.

It was a nostalgic ride up to the house. I haven't been in a minivan since the Captain and I sold ours to make room for the Suburban. I kinda liked being up above the other cars. (Not enough to buy another minivan, but enough to lament the whole "let's sell the Suburban" decision again.)

I'll give you two guesses as to which of these vehicles was the delinquent Underdog that ended up hauling me home.



So, crisis averted. Spare key found. Return trip to Sabin Orchards in Salem. Peaches and tomatoes brought safely home... as backseat passengers in Underdog.