Monga, if she'd had her mind when she took her last breath, would've died proud of her reputation for evading police. Her eyes lit up a special way when she told stories of cop chases in Spokane with her brother Jack (who was Wanted and later spent time in Walla Walla State Penitentiary for grand theft auto). She'd get this wild look and become animated rehashing hairy turns. Her countenance got especially lively as she concluded her tales of escapes.
Riding in the car with Monga was never just a jaunt to the store; it was an Experience. She was a professional tailgater. She'd stop at the last second, then turn to see your pale complexion and hand gripping the door. She'd laugh and say, "I was stopping." Monga was a great weaver. If cloth or baskets could be made out of traffic patterns, Monga's work would be in museums. In an out, across and up. And she was not slow at her craft. Monga was also a street racer, and so became anyone else who stopped beside her at a stoplight. That light would turn green, Monga's foot would gun down on the gas pedal, and that '78 Caddy (or 80's Caddy, or 90s Honda...) would squeal and haul! In the winter, she'd pull into an icy, empty parking lot with that wild look in her eye and spin cookies. The more we squealed, the tighter she turned. And once we became used to the ride and yelled, "More!" she'd stop and head home.
Sometimes, she got pulled over.
"Do you know how fast you were going ma'am?" the officer would say.
Monga would chuckle and say, "Yeah".
And somewhere between that and a citation, Monga would make a new friend of the policeman and she'd be sent on her way, Elvis and burning rubber as her exit music.
So, it was difficult to watch Monga lose her ability to drive. It started with barely noticeable dents and scratches. These became larger, more conspicuous, and came with iffy explanations. One day, her car came home with a very injured left side. Monga's explanation?
"Parking lots are just the worst places to park".
Another time, while driving down a well-trafficked street, I saw my Monga driving down the middle of the road. She'd created a lane for herself. People honked as they passed her, but she neither turned to notice the noise nor diverted from her path. On another occasion she was witnessed parking on the sidewalk.
I don't know how or when she eventually relinquished her keys. But one day, grandpa Cecil was behind the wheel. And once he took that position, nothing was ever the same. The '78 Cadillac was sold, the lawn grew tall, wilted flowers were pulled and never replaced--the ground was left dry and naked.
BUT...
ALSO...
When Monga would ask him to take her down the street to Jessi's house, he'd do it.
And when, on their return home, she'd say, "Take me to Jessi's", he'd turn around and take her again...5 or 6 times a day, wearing a U-turn path in Airway Avenue.
This went on until Monga tried to move home in the middle of the night, carrying a stack of framed photos and Elvis plates in her arms.
"What're you doing?" Cecil asked.
"We're getting out of here. We're moving back home." she said.
Cecil had a friend dump Monga off at a nursing home. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and the diamonds on her fingers.
I've sat in the parking lot at Life Care, trying to get the nerve to go in and face my depleting Monga or trying to cry away the pain given my stomach from visiting her there. I'd have to say, I agree with her fortune cookie statement about parking lots...
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