I’m Pretty Sure my Sister is Tougher than Your Sister

I grew up in a Wyoming town.  Wyoming doesn’t have cities we have towns.  And sometimes, it’s more of a group of people living in a general area.  I served an eighteen-month mission in Texas living in East Texas and two suburbs of Dallas.  After I returned, I moved to Laramie, Wyoming – a college town.  Then I moved to Denver for a while.  That could be a blog in itself.  From Denver I moved to Salt Lake.  Coming from Denver, I felt the Utah metropolis was “cute.”  After Utah, I moved back to my hometown.  I’ve been back seven years and Salt Lake is now big and noisy and I hate driving there.

I shared all this with you just so that the next sentence makes sense.

When I lived in the big city of Salt Lake, I was the victim of car abuse.  I shared an apartment with my sister and her daughter in Salt Lake but we were right across the street from South Salt Lake.  We lived in an apartment building with three other apartments.  Across the way was an older couple who cared for their grandson “Little Tony.”  The name is misleading because there was nothing little about Tony except for his age and maturity level.

photo courtesy the web

I drove my Oldsmobile from Denver but it gave out soon after arriving in Utah.  That’s when I got “The Stud.”  A cute, red Chevy Cavalier.  I have no proof but only strong suspicions that Little Tony didn’t like my car, or perhaps me, at all.  The first clue came when poor little Stud got egged one night.  There were 15 other apartments in our  complex and Stud was the only one wearing breakfast in the morning.  But I couldn’t prove anything.

Then one morning I came out to find the passenger window in pieces and the contents of my glove-box strewn about on the seat.  My privacy felt so violated.  Luckily, I didn’t keep anything of value in my car.  The only thing taken was a small tape-recorder I used to record story ideas.  HA!  Joke was on the bandit because none of the ideas were any good.  Although the thief did try to pry out my factory-stock radio and left a scratch on the dash.  Really? It came with the car.   He left his hoodie used to smash my window on the hood so I think he might have actually lost money.  The new window never fit right and Stud would whistle when we went down the road.  It only annoyed the person in the passenger seat.

Again, I only have suspicions of the culprit.  But strong suspicions.  Maybe it was the hue of the car – red does bring out violence.  I think.  Okay, I might be making that up.  Or maybe he just didn’t care for me.  I don’t know why, I never spoke with him.  Ooh.

Whatever the cause, I usually have one bad dream when I’m visiting that someone is breaking into Felix.  Except now, it’s not exactly a nightmare.

photo courtesy the web

However, my older sister, MZ, had the biggest car adventure of all.  She took her daughter, MM, and her friend to the movie on a Saturday afternoon.  As they were walking back to the car, she noticed that somebody was already in it.  She drove a red (just a coincidence we both had the same color) Dodge Neon that was quite popular during that time.   Her country bumpkin nature assumed it was a case of getting in the wrong car.  After all, she had almost done that a few times.

So, she walked up to the door, knocked on the window and said, “You’re in my cah.”

No, my sister doesn’t have trouble pronouncing her “R’s.”  At this point during the verbal telling of this narrative, I inexplicably morph into big city gangsta talk.  It amuses me to switch my sweet small-town sister into inner-city thug.  It enhances the story, really.

“You’re in my cah,” she said, more or less.  She noticed he had some small tools with him and she realized he wasn’t mistaken.  Except in the moral sense.  She looked up and saw the two girls approaching and she froze.

He smiled.  “My bad,” he said and gathered his tools.  He slid out of the car and disappeared quickly around the corner.  My sister looked in her car and saw the ignition had been dug out.  He left a round hole.

MZ doesn’t like that story because there are so many what-ifs.  But it ended okay, she learned a lesson, and I have a great story to practice my gangsta accent.

This story is a cautionary tale.  You do not want to mess with me.  My sister will protect me like she did her car.  Think about it.


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