It's all Dad's fault. If he hadn't saved every bloomin' license plate since the year of my birth, the wall over our den couch might be artistically decorated, our three children would all be classical musicians, we would be living in Tuscany, and I would have retained my girlish figure after childbirth.
It's all Dad's fault. Well, perhaps just the decorating part. I just may have gotten a little carried away. Thanks for listening.
On that fateful day that Professor Hocum woke up and decided he wanted to cleanse and purge the garage, I intervened, snatching the 50 years of license plates that festooned the garage walls (and probably kept it from falling down) from a fate worse than death in the dust bin. (Do we have dust bins this side of the Pond, or do the Brits hold the copyright on that? Let me know, please. That will bug me the rest of the day.)
The tin treasures were carefully divided between their heiresses, myself and my baby sister iPodite. I don't know what iPodite did with hers, but mine are on the wall above the couch in our family room, along with a few other tin signs, one from the chain link fence that was put up when I made my debut into the world in an unsuccessful attempt to keep me safe from the evils of the bayou,
the south Texas cattle raisers sign that includes a genuine (in Texas, that would be pronounced gin-yu-wine) original bullet hole, not a sticker, (it once graced a gate in south Texas that entered some property owned by my Dear Professor's family)
a plate from my birth year (can you believe I let that one slip?),
a few plates from places we have lived
our favorite place,
and memories of vacation spots.
We may not have communed with flesh eating dinosaurs, but our family vacations did tend to be adventurous.
But I'll save that story for another time. Right now I need to go get gussied up for a date with my main squeeze.
What are some of your favorite things?