filling the well

"Do you ever run out of ideas for your posts?"

It was Ed the Artist, whose works now make my house a home.  We were having our usual Friday morning breakfast at our secret restaurant.  I am certain, as an artist, he has had dry moments himself.

I told him: "Not really.  It seems that whenever the well runs dry, something happens to deliver a story on a silver platter to me.  Like this morning."

We call that an anecdotal transition -- because I am about to tell you about yesterday's silver platter experience.

I have told you about my series of mishaps getting in and out of my old courtyard.  My new Escape has several scars (and replaced parts to prove it).  When I started looking for a house to buy, one requirement was a wider front gate.

Well, "requirement" might be the wrong word.  The garage doors in the house I bought are considerably narrower than the house I left.  I cannot get the Escape through the gates unless I fold in my mirrors.  (They now remain permanently folded -- lest I forget.)

The narrow gate* and my lack of depth perception are not a recipe for maintaining the once-pristine appearance of my vehicle.  When Darrel was here, we devised a foolproof method to avoid mishaps.  It would have been foolproof if I had not been the fool driving on Friday morning.

I had plenty of time to get to breakfast.  Rushing was not a factor.  The trick of getting in and out of the garage is keeping the wheels straight.  Simple.

As I was backing up, I saw some movement on my left.  The wind was blowing that garage door shut.

One of the first rules my Dad taught me when I was learning to drive should have come back to me.  It did, but too late.  Whenever you turn your head, you will steer in that direction.  In reverse, of course, the rule works just as well -- but the direction is opposite.

And I proved my father to be a wise man.  The right front fender caught a 1/2 inch piece of metal on the garage door's locking mechanism.  What you see is the result.

What you don't see is the bent metal on the garage door.  I skewed it far enough that I could not lock the door when I left.  Fortunately, a big hammer and some Mexpatriate muscle fixed the door when I returned home, laughing at my folly.

The fender will require the ministrations of my ever-faithful body man -- Cruz.  He has been the cosmetic surgeon on my past failures.  He jokingly suggested I might consider buying an ATV.  As my former secretary Jamela was prone to say: Many a truth is said in jest.

But all of that will have to wait until after my week-long visit with my Air Force pal Dennis.  He arrives on Sunday to enjoy the new house.  It appears that my walled compound may turn out to be a draw for visitors.

I am certain Dennis and I will encounter sufficient adventures to keep Mexpatriate's well from running too dry during the next week.


* -- See Matthew 7:13.