July 6, 2008 in my first full-week writing class at John C. Casmpbell Folk School there were four older women, two younger women and two men. Guess what group Pat was in.

 

YOU NEVER LIVE ALONE

BY Pat Katterhenry

 

 

            I have come to the conclusion that my personal space has been invaded by a family of invisible, miniscule gremlins whose sole purpose for being is to aggravate my life.

 

            For instance, I place an article in a specific place but when I return to retrieve it – blank, empty; not there.  I just shrug; I know the gremlin, let’s call him Dick for lack of imagination,  has moved my book, my phone, my remote control, whatever, and when the proper time arrives, it will re-appear.

 

            Dick’s brother Tom has the remarkable ability to enter my mind and short circuit my thinking processes.  How he gets there is up for conjecture.  Maybe thru a hair follicle?  Or an ear canal?  A tear duct?  If the powers that be ever decide this problem is worthy of a government study, I’ll be the first to volunteer.

 

            No matter how Tom gets to where he’s going, he knows what to do when he gets there.  On the way to the bedroom to fetch my book, Tom re-routes my thoughts from “book” to “what will I have for supper tonight?”  I find myself standing beside the bed wondering, why am I here?   So I play my thoughts backwards to the place where I began and finally come to “book”.  

 

            Tom also makes driving my car from garage to intended destination somewhat of a challenge.  I’ll have gone several blocks, or miles as the case may be, when suddenly I realize he’s tampered with my GPS.  Not the kind stuck to the dashboard, but the one I have programmed into my brain.   I’ve driven to my friend’s house dozens of times; now I’m headed out of town, way off track. “How the heck did I get here?” Having gotten used to turning around, I just sigh and make the necessary changes in my route.

 

            Harry, the last of the trio, is a complete mystery to me.  He’s my “mess with the laundry and dishwasher” gremlin.  I can only think of two ways he can survive those watery conditions.  He has gills, like Aquaman (it’s been 50 plus years since I read the comics, but I think Aquaman had gills); or he has microscopic scuba gear.

 

            In my clothes washer, Harry delights in turning my unmentionables inside out.  I’ve deliberately tested him; my panties go in right side out; they come out wrong side out.  He even managed to turn a sleeveless t-shirt inside out.  Now it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to solve this problem.  Put the items in the washer wrong side out in the first place and they come out the way you want.  Not always, I have to admit; sometimes the scanties are still wrong side out.  I guess you can’t win ‘em all.

 

            I have definitely surrendered to the battle of the dishwasher where cloudy glasses and spotty dishes are concerned.  Harry seems to thrive on the anti-spotting ingredient in whatever detergent I use, gobbling it up en masse.  Of course, using the “air dry” option might have something to do with my less-than-pristine appearing glassware, plates and stainless steel cutlery.  I just pat myself on the back for conserving energy, give everything coming out of the dishwasher a cursory swipe with a towel; and stack them away, spots and all.

 

            Having personal gremlins is a definite challenge to one’s sanity.  You either learn to live with them or you surrender to a life of complete chaos.  A sense of humor really helps.  Laugh when you find garbage in the refrigerator or a failed-to-mail birthday card under a pile of magazines.  From what I’ve heard, a lot of people are co-habiting with gremlins.  There’s some comfort in knowing you’re not the only one living with these disruptive creatures.  One thing I’ve noticed, however.  My gremlins didn’t come to live with me until my so-called “senior years”.  Now, I wonder why that is.  Maybe Tom, Dick and Harry will tell me some day.