I Bet She Never Even Let Her Daughter Make Mud Pies

You never know when an idea might pop into your head to share with the Blogosphere. I do know that the chance of getting a story increases dramatically when I talk to my sister the ex-mayor’s wife.

I dropped off some papers at her house Monday. The Pony is my courier. Of course I have to drive him around, which kind of defeats the whole purpose of having a courier, but he works for free, and I don’t have to climb in and out of T-Hoe, which at the end of the school day is tantamount to climbing Mount Everest, but without the over-accumulation of feces left behind by climbers before me.

The Pony jumps out and trots through Sis’s garage door to enter the kitchen. Sometimes she meets him at the door, and waves as we leave. Sometimes she is still busy with her granddaughter. But Monday she started haranguing him about the medal flopping against his belly, and followed him to the driveway. She chatted a while, being careful not to get too close to my filthy car, lest the grime jump five feet and contaminate her. Even if she wasn’t fresh out of the shower.

We discussed taxes and inheritance and rude people working the phones at government agencies, and somehow in the mix I mentioned Form W-2 G. I got one, you know, for my big lottery win. That got Sis asking about scratch-off tickets, which we play games with at our holiday gatherings. She was astonished that a man ahead of her in line at a convenience store bought an entire roll of $1 tickets.

“I only had a soda, but I had to wait while the lady counted them out one by one. It cost him $75. I know, because he handed her a hundred, and I saw her give back $25. Then he wanted her to accordion them, because she handed them over like a long ribbon, and he couldn’t carry it out unless he draped it over his shoulder.”

“Oh, I never buy the dollar tickets. I don’t win on them. I have the most luck on the five dollar tickets.”

“I can’t spend that much on tickets!”

“Well, you could buy one a week. Or two every two weeks. Then when you get a winner, play out of that money. That’s how I have done it for years. You could do without a soda or two, and there’s your gambling money.”

“Do you still go to the casino?”

“No. I haven’t been in three or four years, unless Hick and I stopped by for an hour after a doctor’s appointment last year. I used to ride the casino bus in the summer with our gambling aunt. It’s no scarier than her driving was when she took me.” Let the record show that Sis has been to Vegas for gambling a couple of times. High roller. But I make due with the riverboat casinos an hour or more away.

“Do you play the dollar machines?”

“NO! I play quarters. I won’t mess with the pennies and nickels like Grandma used to. And if I win, I sometimes try a few spins at a dollar machine. We’ll have to go sometime after I retire.”

“Oh, I always get behind those old people in their wheelchairs with their oxygen tanks. And last time we were in Las Vegas, I saw a LADY IN A HOSPITAL BED! She was half a lady, really. I swear there was nothing below her waist. And they were wheeling her around in that bed, and they’d stop at a slot machine and she'd roll over and put her money in. I couldn’t believe it!”

“Listen to you! Maybe that was her last wish. You can’t take it with you, you know. Maybe she didn’t want the government to get 20%.”

“I know! But she was half a woman in a hospital bed!”

Yeah. And I was a whole lotta woman in a dirty Tahoe. Sis did not give me a direct answer when I offered to come by this summer and take her for a ride.