church. I just forgot to bring in my suit from the car.”
I like Ike for a lot of reasons. One of them is that he never asks me to go to church with him. And it isn’t because I’m white and he’s black. At our age, Ike and I are quite comfortable in our respective wrinkled skins. We couldn’t care less what other people think. Ike doesn’t ask me about church because he knows I wouldn’t go. I’m just not churchy. I guess I got my fill of it back in LaFargeville. I spent half of my childhood twisting in a church pew. Maybe I’d go to church if I could find one with a minister who gave five-minute sermons, or a choir that could resist singing all five verses of those awful, throat-burning hymns.
I scanned the front page. I read the first three paragraphs of every story in the metro section. I shook open the editorial pages to see what silly positions we were taking on the big issues of the day. I eyeballed the obituaries, looking for people I knew. I gathered my strength and pulled out the lifestyle section to read Gabriella Nash’s feature on those four crazy garage sale ladies.
It was, as I expected, the top story. There was a huge color photo of the four women pretending to squeeze into Eddie French’s taxi with armfuls of bargains. There was an intriguing headline:
‘THE QUEENS OF NEVER DULL’
From garage sales to Caribbean cruises, Life just gets better for these grande dames of Hannawa
There was Gabriella’s first professional byline:
By Gabriella Nash
Hannawa-Union Staff Writer
And there was her first story:
Hannawa—Cab driver Eddie French pulls into the Carmichael House’s curved drive at eight o’clock on the button.
Waiting for him under the condominium tower’s portico are four seventy-something women. They are dressed to the nines in colorful microfiber pantsuits and wide-brimmed straw hats.
The women squeeze into the freshly washed yellow Chevrolet with their travel mugs of coffee and a big box of Danish. They also have the classifieds from that morning’s paper. Every garage sale in the city and its near suburbs is circled in red.
“To the hunt!” commands one of the women from under her purple hat. “One-nineteen Plumbrook.”
“One-nineteen, it is,” French answers, tugging dutifully on the bill of his bright orange Hannawa Woolybears baseball cap. He swings his cab back onto Hardihood Avenue and heads for Greenlawn.
Ike was busy calculating the current value of his stock portfolio. But somehow my “Damn it!” penetrated his brain. “Something bad, Maddy?”
“I’ll say. The girl can write.”
Ike sadly shook his head. “I’ll ask the reverend to say a special prayer.”
“Thank you—unfortunately I don’t think God will take her talent back.”
“I was talking about a prayer for you.”
“I don’t think that one will get through either.”
We laughed. Winked at each other. Went back to our respective sections of the paper.
French knows only too well what he’s in for today. Every Saturday for the past five years—from early May to the end of October—he has been driving this spirited foursome on their search for treasure.
And when he’s not driving them to garage sales, he’s driving them to rummage sales and auctions. Or to charity luncheons and teas. Or to concerts or plays. Or to the airport.
“They’ve got to be the busiest ladies in Hannawa,” says the bewhiskered, 61-year-old French. “I know I’m the busiest cab driver.”
And just who are these four always-on-the-go golden girls?
Wouldn’t you know it. Right when I got to the part of the story I wanted to read most, James let go with his I’m-done-peeing-let me-in howl. I looked at Ike for assistance. Ike pretended he didn’t see me. So I let James in myself. And filled his bowl with his second breakfast of the day. And I poured myself a second cup of coffee.
“No fresh-up for me?” Ike complained.
“Sorry, I thought you were dead.”
I took the empty mug
I like Ike for a lot of reasons. One of them is that he never asks me to go to church with him. And it isn’t because I’m white and he’s black. At our age, Ike and I are quite comfortable in our respective wrinkled skins. We couldn’t care less what other people think. Ike doesn’t ask me about church because he knows I wouldn’t go. I’m just not churchy. I guess I got my fill of it back in LaFargeville. I spent half of my childhood twisting in a church pew. Maybe I’d go to church if I could find one with a minister who gave five-minute sermons, or a choir that could resist singing all five verses of those awful, throat-burning hymns.
I scanned the front page. I read the first three paragraphs of every story in the metro section. I shook open the editorial pages to see what silly positions we were taking on the big issues of the day. I eyeballed the obituaries, looking for people I knew. I gathered my strength and pulled out the lifestyle section to read Gabriella Nash’s feature on those four crazy garage sale ladies.
It was, as I expected, the top story. There was a huge color photo of the four women pretending to squeeze into Eddie French’s taxi with armfuls of bargains. There was an intriguing headline:
‘THE QUEENS OF NEVER DULL’
From garage sales to Caribbean cruises, Life just gets better for these grande dames of Hannawa
There was Gabriella’s first professional byline:
By Gabriella Nash
Hannawa-Union Staff Writer
And there was her first story:
Hannawa—Cab driver Eddie French pulls into the Carmichael House’s curved drive at eight o’clock on the button.
Waiting for him under the condominium tower’s portico are four seventy-something women. They are dressed to the nines in colorful microfiber pantsuits and wide-brimmed straw hats.
The women squeeze into the freshly washed yellow Chevrolet with their travel mugs of coffee and a big box of Danish. They also have the classifieds from that morning’s paper. Every garage sale in the city and its near suburbs is circled in red.
“To the hunt!” commands one of the women from under her purple hat. “One-nineteen Plumbrook.”
“One-nineteen, it is,” French answers, tugging dutifully on the bill of his bright orange Hannawa Woolybears baseball cap. He swings his cab back onto Hardihood Avenue and heads for Greenlawn.
Ike was busy calculating the current value of his stock portfolio. But somehow my “Damn it!” penetrated his brain. “Something bad, Maddy?”
“I’ll say. The girl can write.”
Ike sadly shook his head. “I’ll ask the reverend to say a special prayer.”
“Thank you—unfortunately I don’t think God will take her talent back.”
“I was talking about a prayer for you.”
“I don’t think that one will get through either.”
We laughed. Winked at each other. Went back to our respective sections of the paper.
French knows only too well what he’s in for today. Every Saturday for the past five years—from early May to the end of October—he has been driving this spirited foursome on their search for treasure.
And when he’s not driving them to garage sales, he’s driving them to rummage sales and auctions. Or to charity luncheons and teas. Or to concerts or plays. Or to the airport.
“They’ve got to be the busiest ladies in Hannawa,” says the bewhiskered, 61-year-old French. “I know I’m the busiest cab driver.”
And just who are these four always-on-the-go golden girls?
Wouldn’t you know it. Right when I got to the part of the story I wanted to read most, James let go with his I’m-done-peeing-let me-in howl. I looked at Ike for assistance. Ike pretended he didn’t see me. So I let James in myself. And filled his bowl with his second breakfast of the day. And I poured myself a second cup of coffee.
“No fresh-up for me?” Ike complained.
“Sorry, I thought you were dead.”
I took the empty mug
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