Hello folks, let’s chat…Some stories need to marinate before husband type people can find the humor in them. Women know this, intuitively, but Southern Mamas are good at passing along the skill. I’m looking at you, Charlotte Ann.
Today’s story is a good example for several reasons, A) the car featured here was unharmed, B) we had traded it before I ‘fessed up, and C) Phil is an all’s well that ends well fellow. Color me grateful.
I was parked before a railroad crossing at dusk one day, awaiting the passing of a longer than usual train when it started.
Bump. Bump. Bump. This is strange, I thought to myself. What is that noise and where is it coming from? It sounds like someone is beating on the roof of my car, rhythmically, at that. I looked around, up, and down. I couldn’t see anyone or anything. Bump. Bump. Bump.
My thoughts immediately turned to Edgar Allen Poe and that story we were forced to read in high school about the dadblame beating heart. I never did like that dumb story, but I’ve never forgotten it either, and this insistent bumping was bringing it back like a bad nightmare that’s still there even after you wake up and take a deep breath.
Bump. Bump. Bump. It wasn’t getting louder, but it wasn’t going away. I was glad it wasn’t completely dark out because the whole thing was kind of eerie. And that’s when I decided that perhaps the Lord was trying to get my attention. I sent up a prayer that sounded something like, “What are you trying to tell me, Lord?”
No, I didn’t actually hear a reply, but I did have a sudden flash of insight, so draw your own conclusion. In the stillness of the moment, with the bump, bump, bump beating in the background, the answer came to me. “It looks like you’re parked too close to the tracks and the crossing bar is tapping on your roof.”
Laugh with me. Laugh at me. I don’t care. Just, lighten up and laugh. You know you want to and if Phil can, you can.