As God is my witness, every word in this tale is true. It involves still another member of that wild and fascinating tribe, the Gorgeous Galucki Girls, or the GGG.
Their numbers stretch from the Florida Panhandle with populations in Atlanta, Buffalo, even Portland and Castine. The names will be changed to protect the unfortunately innocent. Let’s call this one … Tracy.
Picture the scene. A beautiful summer night in a cabin by a river. Let’s call it the St. Croix. Inside the cabin are two snoring old goats and one GGG in their separate beds. Naturally, I am one of the old goats.
One of my many weaknesses is the purchase and possession of flashlights. I have them on key chains, in cars, in drawers and in every sleeping bag and York Box for camping trips. I have a million-candlepower searchlight. Don’t ask. I have two (2) of those magic, solar-powered lanterns from L.L. Bean’s which require no batteries.
I awake in this pristine wilderness cabin to hear a pitiful sound. GGG is crying.
The next thing I hear is GGG calling my name.
I figured she has come to her senses and decided to leave her male-model-architect husband for a broken-down, tired ex-reporter.
And who could blame her?
It is pitch-black. I have a lantern and a key-chain flashlight at arm’s length. Or I did have. Can’t find either. Maybe the mice took them for a party of their own.
“What is it?” I asked cleverly.
“I’m all right, I’m all right,” she said, gasping.
I was worried about the poor thing (honest) and thought about inviting her into my bed for some comforting. We were both in sleeping bags, zipped to the top. I am a grandfather, after all, and that’s what we are supposed to do.
The rest of the night passed with no one else calling my name.
In the morning, GGG explained that she had a horrible dream where the other old goat was murdered and she was being dragged from the cabin, her mouth covered in duct tape. She was calling me to save her life – while I was fumbling for a flashlight.
Figures. It had to be a nightmare.
In the morning light, she said, “I wanted to get into bed with you, but didn’t know what you would think.”
When things calmed down in the morning, her uncle and I went into Vanceboro to get the papers. On the way back, I had an idea. A sick idea.
There was always plenty of duct tape in the mighty Tundra. I don’t know why. There just is.
When we got back to the cabin, (let’s call her) Tracy was sitting in the sun by the river, reading a book. We covered our mouths in duct tape and held our hands behind our backs like we were handcuffed. We stumbled up to (let’s call her) Tracy and mumbled excitedly until she turned around.
She is a tiny thing and leapt at least a foot off her chair, holding her heart.
And we think we are hilarious.
As we sat around the river finishing the almost perfect coffee, (let’s call her) Tracy had only one concern.
“What if I have the same dream and yell out ‘Emmet! Emmet!’ in bed with my [male-model, architect] husband?”
It would serve him right, I would say.
Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at email@example.com.