And Then There's This...

The Car in the Driveway

“Return with us now to the thrilling days of yesteryear.” If you're absolutely ancient, you'll recall that this was the intro to the radio version of “The Lone Ranger.” But all I'm asking you to do now is return to those claustrophobic days of COVID quarantine, that seeming eternity during which most of us were prudently confined to our homes for days and even weeks at a time.

During this period, I was the chief caregiver for my wife, Norma, who was disintegrating from Alzheimer's and Parkinson's. Fortunately, I had lots of help. All three of my kids and a daughter-in-law lived in Nashville and were always coming out to our home in Kingston Springs to lend a hand. On this particular day, our oldest daughter, Erin, was there for the afternoon so I could somewhat relax and work on writing assignments. At around six o'clock, she hugged us goodbye, climbed into her massive Toyota 4Runner SUV and rolled out of our circular driveway. Moments later, I looked out the window and noticed that while she was there, a strange car had evidently pulled in and parked behind her.

I figured it probably belonged to one of our four grandsons, each of whom had dropped by occasionally to do some chores around the house. I waited a few minutes, but no one got out of the car. And it was too near dark to see who was inside. When no one had emerged after about 15 minutes, I called Erin and my two other kids — Rachel and Jason — to tell them about the phantom vehicle — just in case “something bad” were to happen. I'd heard about sightings and disturbances in our neck of the thick woods. This might be my turn.

Although I'm generally anti-firearms, I still had some guns I'd either inherited or purchased when I was young — nothing rapid fire, mind you, just a couple of old pistols and a .22 rifle. Responding to the instinct that illustrates why carrying loaded guns is such a bad idea, I got the rifle from one room and the clip of shells from another, inserted the clip and sat with the rifle across my knees at the dining room table, from which vantage point I could keep an eye on the car. I thought of walking out onto the front porch with my rifle so the driver could see I was no one to trifle with. But then it occurred to me that he or she might be armed, too, and shoot first. Since I'm a big fan of self-preservation I stayed inside and continued watching. We were about a half hour into the standoff by then. I decided to call the local police department — not 911 — but of course no one answered.

While I was planning military strategy, my kids were moving into more direct action. Erin called 911 on my behalf, and Rachel called a friend who lived just around the corner from me in the Ranchettes to come over and check out the situation. Just as the 911 operator called me back to make sure Erin's call was authentic, another car pulled into my driveway and parked alongside the first one. A big guy with a gray beard got out of the second car and walked toward the house. I told 911 of this new arrival. Then I stepped out onto the porch, my rifle at my side but pointed down toward the ground. The big guy grinned, introduced himself and told me he was the friend Rachel had summoned. He told me that no one was in the strange car and volunteered to walk around the outside of our house to see where the driver might have gone. So there I was, a rifle in one hand, my phone in the other still talking to the 911 operator. Emboldened that I now had backup, I told 911 I was going to approach the strange car to give her the model and license number. She said she'd wait while I did this.

I, too, peeked into the car to be sure no one was crouching inside. There wasn't, so I went around to the rear of the car, reported to the operator that it was a Honda and then began reading the license plate numbers to her. I told her the car was registered in Cheatham County, and then I gasped, “Jesus Christ! It's my car.” Because of the quarantine, I'd driven the car only four or five times since I'd bought it. But then I remembered that earlier in the afternoon, while Erin was watching Norma, I'd made a quick drive to the store, and that when I came back I'd parked behind Erin's SUV instead of pulling into our garage. By this time, the big guy had made his circuit of the perimeter and said he'd seen no one. I told him his trip had not been entirely wasted because he'd just met the biggest damn idiot in the universe.

(Please send your comments or questions to stormcoast@mindspring.com with “And Then There's This” in the subject line. And thanks for reading.)

Learn more about Edward in the Gazette's recent community spotlight here.