Be Careful Who’s In Your Backseat

Since I made some people a little weepy with the Casa Blanca Lilies story yesterday, I thought I’d follow it up on this lovely Sunday with one of my road kill yarns.  I have a number of them.  I don’t go around aiming for unaware creatures to maim and mutilate.  They just seem to find me and ruin my day.  In my defense, I don’t even like to kill bugs.

This particular incident ruined more than my day.  It’s been a few years and I still think about it.  I call it:

Be Careful Who’s In Your Backseat

A thirty-something daughter and her mother were looking for a horse farm in the Gettysburg area.  They weren’t even my clients.  These are the kind of things that can happen when you do someone a favor.  It was a gorgeous Sunday morning and I should have been home in bed, or at church.  Maybe that was the problem; I wasn’t in church.

Another Realtor in my office asked if I could show her clients three farms this particular Sunday morning.  She was going away for the weekend and couldn’t take them.  She assured me they were nice people and I said yes, I’d take them.

I had my little Audi then.  We started off with Daughter up front chatting with me and Mom in back…as in the seat immediately behind me.  They appeared normal, though Mom was quiet.

We left the first farm and headed for the next, turning from one quiet country road onto another.  It was quite buccolic.  I suddenly had a great sense of well-being and felt euphoric that I had gotten up early on such a beautiful day.  That’s when it happened.  Doesn’t it always?

Faster than you could say, “What the?”, a small fawn was in front of my car.  I knew he had jumped from somewhere, but it was more like he had materialized from thin air.  I rumbled over him like he was a mere twig.  There had been no time to brake or even swerve.  It was a sickening sound and my stomach went from happy to queasy in seconds.

Looking back, I didn’t see him, but I pulled over to investigate the horror I had caused.  Daughter jumped out of the car and walked back with me.  He was beautiful but sadly mangled and lay in a grassy ditch fighting for his last little gasps of his short life.  I really wanted to cry (seriously, like a baby), but this stranger was beside me and I feared if I lost it there on the road, I would not recover anytime soon.  I was also awash in guilt for I was certain his mommy was watching from somewhere close, heartbroken, and fixing me with accusing, sorrowful brown eyes.

Suddenly, Mom is yelling at us from beside the car, “Is it dead?”

Daughter called back, “No.”

Mom yelled again, “Do you want me to kill it?  I can kill it.  I have my knife with me.”

I may have been mistaken, but the offer sounded almost gleeful and anticipatory.  My brain was silently screaming, “No, no I most certainly do not want you to kill it.  Stay back.  Don’t come any closer.”  I was ready to throw myself over my victim to protect him.

Daughter and I shook our heads no, perhaps guessing or hoping all would be over in seconds without Mom’s help.

Mom calls out again, “Are you sure?”

Yes, yes I was very sure – stay away!  Well, Bambi expired just then thankfully, which was good because I knew he was suffering.  I said a prayer thanking God for taking him and not the Mom from Deliverance in my backseat.

We continued on because:  1.  it’s my job;  2.  I was in shock;  3. they seemed unfazed.

The entire time, I’m now thinking, I don’t know these people, I don’t know anything about the woman sitting within arm’s reach behind me and she has a knife on her person big enough to kill a deer.

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The Flying Fingernails

Well, it’s another beautiful hot day in Gettysburg…90+ degrees.  I’m beginning to feel very sorry for the reenactors and visitors here this week to celebrate the 149 Anniversary.  They (the infamous they) are calling for 101 degrees on Saturday.  That is brutal.  Town is busy, however, and we are all soldiering on (pun intended – forgive me).

To take your mind off the heat, a funny tale of:

The Flying Fingernails 

When I began as a Realtor many years ago, I worked in a large office with many women who took considerable care with their appearance, and in particular, their fingernails.  They were chagrinned and found it amusing that I, although perfectly presentable otherwise, had unpolished, short thin nails, always in varying states of disrepair.  My nails were weak and unattractive all my life, constantly breaking and splitting, and, after many years of trying to keep them feminine looking, I had more or less given up.

However, now these women all told me I could buy nails; artificial ones could be readily and reasonably ensconced on top of my pathetic ones in the mere span of an hour at any salon.  They reminded me my hands were now in front of clients every day, and they were right about that.  We were constantly shoving papers of all sorts in front of our buyers and sellers and pointing out (with these very same nails and fingers) important sections of listings, offers, etc.  They couldn’t believe I wasn’t hideously embarrassed to display my disgraceful digits to client after client.

Well, I did admire their long, lovely and colorful fake nails that looked so real.  I admit – I had serious nail envy.  Eventually, I was shamed and coerced into making an appointment for my own excursion into the world of beautiful hands.

And, they were lovely, and I was in love for the third time – with my nails.  I spent much time admiring them, sometimes even as I ran them over the critical parts of contracts in full view of people who were really only concerned with the language on the pages.  I was in heaven when someone admired their glorious color and asked for the brand and name of the polish.

For about two years, I diligently kept up my nail vigil via constant trips to the salon for fill, replacements and manicures.  It was wearing on me.  I’ve never been a girly-girl who concerns herself with such things.  The novelty had worn off after the first few months and I was beginning to tire of the expense and maintenance.

At around this time, I was out one afternoon showing a lovely couple a farmhouse with a small single story barn.  When we entered the barn, it was divided into two sections, with a worn and thin wooden door separating the two areas.  It was warped, somewhat askew and stuck mightily at the bottom.  I was determined to get it open and show them the entire barn.  Valiantly I pulled and tugged on the top section, and success was mine.  It gave way.  As it did, tiny, jagged projectiles whizzed past the faces of the startled couple behind me at a dangerous velocity.  The husband asked, “Were those your nails?”  I replied, “Yes,” smiled and did my best to ignore the throbbing pain at the ends of my fingers.

That was the end of my attempt at hand beautification.  I decided to concentrate on my hair in the future, which was much less likely to injure anyone.

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