Village Squire, 1980-06, Page 17SIX ACHERS
Yvonne Reynolds and her husband, a
retired Canadian Armed Forces officer,
settled in rural Huron County six years
ago. The antics of one dog (daughter of an
immoral Sheltie), one house cat (Himalay-
an aristocat), one barn cat (don't ask) and a
fluctuating number of chickens and goats
keep her supplied with more than enough
material for a regular monthly column.
The play
is not the only thing
BY YVONNE REYNOLDS
Nothing disturbs my friend Elva. If the
world should come to an end, she would
finish whatever task was at hand -
vacuuming the upstairs, hulling strawber-
ries, putting Drano in every drain -tie her
apron more securely around her firm little
waist, and begin looking around for ways to
rectify matters. When she phoned one day
to ask if I would like to g� with her to see a
play in Stratford, I agreed at once. There
would be Elva and myself, Elva's 19 -
year -old daughter Laura and her friend
Brenda. We would go Dutch. I anticipated
an enjoyable, tranquil evening.
The drive to Stratford was uneventful.
Laura parked on a quiet, tree -lined street
near the theatre, locked all doors, and we
sauntered past flourishing flowerbeds and
decorative shrubs to the city's most famous
building. After Laura picked up the tickets,
we stood in the foyer hoping to spot a
celebrity, famous or otherwise. (The only
one I recognized was Gordon Sinclair, and 1
would not dare to categorize him.)
When the doors to the inner sanctum
opened we located our seats, two rows
from the back and two seats in from the
wall. If the action did not take place on
stage right, we did not see it.
After the performance, we strolled back
to the car. Laura casually inserted the key
in the lock of the door on the driver's side
while debating amicably with her friend
the relative merits of this night's play as
compared to the one she had attended the
week before. She broke off her discourse in
mid -sentence to give the door her
undivided attention. It refused to open.
She ceased her efforts on that side, came
around to the other front door, and tried
her key in that lock. No luck. "We've been
having trouble with the locks" Elva
explained in her calm, unruffled voice,
"and the original set of keys works best."
Turning to her daughter, she asked Laura
which set she was using. "The duplicates"
Laura answered in disgust.
GAVE UP
A man parked directly behind us in a
pickup truck came over, immediately
grasped the situation, and was handed the
keys. He soon gave up, and suggested a
dab of oil. Laura speculated that with a coat
hanger she might be able to pry a window
aside, snag one of the door locks, and open
a door from the inside. The man shrugged
and offered to go back to the theatre and
see what he could find. He vanished into
the darkness.
As cars pulled out around us, the street
became more and more deserted. A fine
mist hung in the trees, and drops of
moisture fell from wet leaves onto wet
pavement. A man in evening clothes
approached . asked what the trouble was,
and suggested liquid graphite might help.
He went to his car and came back with a
small tube of lock de-icer, which he
squirted into both locks. Laura tried the
key. Our helper tried the key. The doors
stayed firmly locked.
Our erstwhile friend shook his head,
pocketed his little tube, and walked back to
his car, black patent shoes gliding over
glistening black asphalt. His vehicle roared
into life, curved around us, and vanished
with a final wink of red tail lights. The four
of us stood helplessly beside the car, hair
uncurling into dank strands (except for
Brenda's, which curled even more tightly
in the damp night air.) Periodically Laura
slapped her hand down on the car's hood,
an obvious psychic substitute for the kick
she wanted to give herself.
OUR GOOD SAMARITAN
All four heads lifted at once. Our Good
Samaritan had returned. He handed Laura
a coat hanger already bent into a hook at
one end, took back the keys, and began
applying oil. Laura started pulling at the
passenger side window. No matter how
hard she pushed, she could not get the
metal between the glass and the rubber.
She walked around to the driver's side and
tried again. In a few minutes she gave an
excited shout. She had hooked onto the
door lock. She pulled and tugged, tugged
and pulled, but the lock would not move.
Finally Eva spoke in her calm, serene way.
"Laura dear, don't you remember that the
lock is broken on that side? Even if you were
sitting behind the wheel with your hand
right on the button, you wouldn't be able to
open that door." The four of us sagged
hopelessly against the front of the car.
A triumphant male voice shattered the
gloom. Our Sir Galahad had succeeded in
opening the passenger -side door. While
thanking him profusely, Elva and 1 climbed
into the back seat. Laura crawled through
to take her place behind the wheel, and
Brenda closed the door. I leaned back and
breathed a silent prayer of relief. We
were on our way at last.
Laura turned the much -abused key in the
ignition. Nothing happened. "We are also
having trouble with the ignition," Elva
explained in her calm, quiet voice, "Laura
dear, are those pliers still on the dash?
Hand them to me please." With the pliers
in her hand, Elva bent forward at a
90 -degree angle. "Hold the key in place,
dear", and Elva grasped the whole ignition
system with her pliers and turned. The
motor coughed, caught and started
running. I said another prayer of thanks-
giving and again relaxed.
As Laura guided the car onto the road,
she said over her shoulder, "1 hope there's
an all-night gas station open. The needle's
on empty."
1 shall be eternally grateful for gas
stations that provide 24-hour service. After
going in the wrong direction for two miles,
getting directions from a helpful jogger,
and retracing our route, we tanked up and
started home. We were soon enveloped in
a fog as thick as soo peep. . .1 mean sea
poop. . . or is it poo seep . . . it was like
cream of wheat porridge.Three hours after
my ETA (estimated time of arrival), 1
stepped gratefully into my kitchen. A
concerned husband wanted to know why I
was so late.
"Believe me", I replied, "the drama
that took place after the final curtain came
down tonight was far more exciting than the
one enacted on stage."
VILLAGE SQUIRE/JUNE 1980 PG. 15