The Time Traveler? And More Stories :)

[NoelW]

Back in the 1980s, I was friendly with an older man named Henry, who told me a strange story about something he experienced on New Year’s Eve, 1957. It was an experience, he said, he would never forget.
In 1957, Henry was living in Taunton, Massachusetts, but had been invited to a New Year’s Eve party at a friend’s house in Chatham, Massachusetts, which is located on Cape Cod - a distance of approximately 70 miles East of Taunton.

The local radio station had been threatening a coastal snow storm all day, so Henry decided to leave for Chatham as soon as he got out of work at 5 o’clock and also thought he would stop for a bite to eat somewhere along the way.
It was already dark outside when he left Taunton, but he had driven as far as Wareham before it began to snow. By the time he approached Sandwich, the snow had begun to accumulate on the road and it was coming down so hard and fast that he switched his windshield wipers to high.
He had hoped to find an open restaurant or diner so that he could stop to get something to eat and to also take a break from the stressful drive. But, being New Year’s Eve, most businesses were closed and the only place he had seen open was a gas station he had passed a few miles back.
He had no choice but to carefully forge ahead.
After he had driven for about another fifteen minutes, he was relieved to see a restaurant off to one side of the road, which had a neon sign on its roof that read “Darla’s Place.” It had colorful Christmas lights strung in its windows and he could detect the movement of people inside. He eased his car carefully into the parking lot and parked next to an old Ford Coupe, which reminded him of the Ford his father used to drive.


He noticed a couple of other snow-covered cars that were parked to the far left of the parking lot.
Once inside of the restaurant, he noticed an elderly couple seated at a table next to a wood-burning stove and a young man seated by himself at the coffee counter. He decided to sit at the coffee counter, too, so he maneuvered himself onto a stool, but leaving the space of two stools between himself and the young man. The young man smiled at him and said “Happy New Year,” so Henry returned his greeting.
A pretty blonde waitress appeared from out of the kitchen. She was wearing a white uniform and a blue & white checked apron with a matching cap. She wished him a Happy New Year as she plopped a menu on the counter in front of him. He returned the greeting and then asked her if he could have a cup of coffee, which she turned around and placed in front of him as quickly as if she had read his mind. A moment later she took his order and shouted over her shoulder “Clam Chowder, Fish Sandwich” to whomever was doing the cooking in the kitchen.

Henry sipped his coffee and decided to smoke a cigarette while he waited for his food. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, but had apparently left his matches in his car, so he asked the waitress if she had any. She reached into the pocket of her apron and tossed a book of matches to him, to which he replied, “Thanks, sweetheart.” She apparently took offense at his familiarity and with a definite tone of indignation in her voice said, “The name is Millie, thank you very much!”
Henry noticed that the cover of the book of matches was whimsically designed with a cartoon caricature of a waitress struggling to balance a tray of food above her head and in red italic letters read “Darla’s Place.” And then in bold, black lettering below was a telephone number. He lit a cigarette and then stuck both the book of matches and his pack of cigarettes back into his shirt pocket.
A moment later there was a commotion heard outside and Henry turned to see that a bus had pulled up and parked in front of the restaurant. Another moment passed before a uniformed bus driver with a group of six or eight people clamored inside. They all seated themselves at tables and Henry listened while they talked about the snow storm and how treacherous the roads had gotten.
The waitress scurried from table to table with a pot of coffee and then over the next few minutes shouted more orders back to the kitchen. She finally brought Henry’s food to him and then refilled his coffee cup.


He was going to ask for his check when he finished eating his sandwich, but he noticed the young man eating what appeared to be the largest piece of chocolate cream pie he had ever seen in his life, so he ordered himself a piece, too. He decided what he had heard about roadside types of restaurants serving good, home-cooked meals at super-cheap prices was true.
With his appetite satiated, Henry paid his check and then took a few moments to freshen-up in the mens room. As he returned from the mens room, the group of people were putting on their coats and making their way back outside to climb aboard the bus. The young man who had been seated at the counter had joined them. It was only then when Henry noticed that the group of people all seemed to be wearing old fashioned coats and hats. The uniformed bus driver had gone outside to start the bus, but had come back inside one last time to ask “anyone else on this bus?”
The elderly couple seated by the wood-burning stove shook their heads no. Henry replied that he was driving his own car, but asked him in which direction the bus was headed. The bus driver said he was headed to Yarmouth and then onto Harwich, Orleans and Wellfleet. Henry knew that Orleans was close to Chatham, so he asked the bus driver if it would be okay to tag along behind him. The bus driver answered “not at all” and then said “let’s get going.”

The snow had turned to sleet when Henry pulled his car up behind the bus. It was when the bus driver was revving the engine of the bus that Henry noticed how old the bus appeared to be. He remembered thinking to himself, “where in hell did they dig this old tub up from?”
But, he was grateful to have the bus to follow all the way to Orleans, which he thought would make the remainder of his trip a lot less stressful.
The bus pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the road. Henry followed a close, but safe distance behind. With his defroster and windshield wipers both running on high, there was still a certain amount of ice building up on his windshield. Visibility was poor, but he was glad he could at least see the tail lights of the bus ahead of him.
It seemed to Henry to take forever to arrive in Yarmouth, where the bus stopped only briefly for the bus driver to kick some ice from its fenders and for the young man to hop off. Henry watched as the bus driver climbed back up into the bus and at the same time couldn’t help but notice that his uniform and cap looked as old fashioned as the coats and hats the group of people aboard the bus were wearing, and for that matter, as old fashioned as the bus itself. He reached under his jacket to retrieve the cigarettes and matches from his shirt pocket and thought a smoke might help to calm his nerves.

The bus lurched forward and headed down the road again. The young man waved as Henry passed him by. He remembered feeling relieved that the young man hadn’t been wearing old fashioned clothes, too.
Down the road it seemed to Henry that the bus was picking up speed and he recalled thinking that the bus driver must be out of his mind to be driving so fast on such slippery roads. He tried his best to keep up with the bus, but its tail lights seemed to get smaller in the distance until at last they disappeared into a blur of white. In hopes to catch up with the bus, he accelerated, but after driving another ten or twelve miles, there was still no sign of the bus. At first he wondered if the bus had made a turn or had slid off the road, but he hadn’t noticed a turn anywhere and he was sure he would have seen some tire tracks if it had gone off the road. But, there was nothing to be seen or noticed, except the snow and sleet pelting his windshield and the road before him. He said a silent prayer for the passengers on the bus to safely reach their destinations. And then having decided it was better to be safe than sorry, he slowed his car down to a crawl.
It took him another 45 minutes of stressful driving to arrive at his friend’s house in Chatham.
His friend, Dave, met him at the door and expressed his concern about him having made the trip in such dreadful weather, but also expressed his relief for his safe arrival.

Once inside of Dave’s house, Henry saw that several other guests had arrived and were already merrily engaged in laughter and cocktails. The expected holiday greetings were exchanged by everyone and then Dave’s mother, Sylvia, took Henry by his shirtsleeve and said, “Oh, you must be starving, poor darling,” as she ushered him toward a sideboard that was laden with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres.
“Actually,” said Henry, “I stopped to get a bite to eat along the way.”
“Oh,” she said, “I’m surprised you found a place open on New Year’s Eve.”
“Well, there was this neat little roadside joint called Darla’s Place up by Barnstable,” said Henry, “where I had a bowl of chowder, a fish sandwich and a gigantic piece of chocolate cream pie.”
“Oh, ha ha, very funny,” said Sylvia, but her laugh was insincere.
Henry thought her superficial laugh was an odd reaction, so he asked, “Why is that funny?”
“Because, “said Sylvia, with a look of ‘now don’t try to pull an old lady’s leg’ on her face,” Darla’s Place burnt to the ground about twenty years ago.”
“That’s not possible,” said Henry, “I just ate there tonight.”
“You must be mistaken, dear,” said Sylvia quite matter-of-factly. And then she turned to her husband who was standing on the opposite side of the room and shouted, “Fred, when did Darla’s Place burn down, was it 37 or 38?”
“New Year’s Eve, 38“ came his answer from across the room.
The blood rushed to Henry’s head and his ears began to ring. Suddenly he remembered the book of matches in his shirt pocket, but before he pulled them out he thought to himself, “if these don’t say Darla’s Place, I’m going to be in desperate need of psychiatric help.”
He slowly lifted the book of matches from his pocket, looked at them, and then with a sigh of relief handed them to Sylvia and asked,” Then how do you explain these?”

Sylvia first studied the book of matches with a look of disbelief, but then she rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and with a burst of triumphant laughter said, “Oh, you naughty boy! You must have gotten them at an antiques shop or flea market.” And then she playfully shook her finger in his face and said, “This is New Year’s Eve, darling, not April Fools’ Day. Now c’mon! Let’s have a drink!”
And drink they did.

Fast forward to the 1980s -

Henry told me that after the New Year’s Eve party of 1957 he had made the trip from Taunton to Chatham many times. Along the way he always looked for Darla’s Place, but of course, he never found it. He said he might have chalked up the whole experience as a hallucination “if” it weren’t for the book of matches and for a couple of older people at Dave’s party who remembered a blonde waitress named Millie who had worked at Darla’s Place.

© T.N.W.

Very neat!!!

Wow I was glued to my screen mate reading that!!!!

Maybe he hit a time vortex,it would have been neat if he got on that bus!!!


Thank you for sharing!!!!!

[NoelW]

I have the feeling if he had gotten on the bus, he would never have been seen or heard from again.

[NoelW]

Lyon Clayborn, and a business associate, Charlie Phelps, had just finished lunch in the small Southwest Louisiana town of Abbeville.
Still discussing their work, they began their drive north along Highway 167 towards the Oil Center city of Lafayette about 15 miles away. The date was October 20, 1969, and the time was about 1:30 in the afternoon. It was one of those picture-perfect days in Fall--clear blue skies and a nippy 60 degrees, just right conditions for cruising along with the car windows rolled down.

Aside from a car following them, the highway had been practically traffic-free until they spotted some distance ahead what appeared to be an old turtle-back-type auto traveling very slowly. As they closed the distance between their vehicle and this relic from the past, their discussion turned from their insurance work to the old car ahead of them.
While the style of the auto indicated it to be decades old, it appeared to be in show room condition, which evoked words of admiration from both Lyon and Charlie. Because the car was traveling so slowly, the two men decided to pass it, but before doing so, slowed to better appreciate the beauty and mint condition of the vehicle. As they did so,
Lyon noticed a very large bright orange license plate with the year "1940" clearly printed on it.
This was most unusual and probably illegal unless provisions had been made for the antique car to be used in ceremonial parades.
As they passed the car slowly to its left, Lyon, who was in the passenger's seat, noticed the driver of the car was a young woman dressed in what appeared to be 1940 vintage clothing. This was 1969 and a young woman wearing a hat complete with a long colored feather and a fur coat was, to say the least, a bit unusual. A small child stood on the seat next to her, possibly a little girl. The gender of the child was hard to determine as it too wore a heavy coat and cap.


The windows of her car were rolled up, a fact which puzzled Lyon because, though the temperature was cool, it was quite pleasant and a light sweater was sufficient to keep you comfortable. As they pulled up next to the car, their study turned to alarm as their attention was riveted to the animated expressions of fear and panic on the woman's face. Driving slowly alongside of her at a near crawl they could see her frantically looking back and forth as if lost or in need of help. She appeared on the verge of tears.
Being on the passenger's side, Lyon called out to her and asked if she needed help. To this she nodded "yes," all the while looking down (old cars sat a little higher than the low profiles of today's cars) with a very puzzled look at their vehicle.
Lyon motioned to her to pull over and park on the side of the road. He had to repeat the request several times with hand signs and mouthing the words because her window was rolled up and it seemed she had difficulty hearing them.

They saw her begin to pull over so they continued to pass her so as to safely pull over also in front of her. As they came to a halt on the shoulder of the road, Lyon and Charlie turned to look at the old car behind them. However, to their astonishment, there was no sign of the car. Remember, this was on an open highway with no side roads nearby, no place to hide a car. The car and its occupants had simply vanished.
Lyon and Charlie looked back at the empty highway. As they sat in the car, spellbound and bewildered, it was obvious to them that a search would prove futile. Meanwhile, the driver of a vehicle that had been behind them pulled over. He ran to Lyon and Charlie and frantically demanded an explanation as to what had become of the car ahead of them. His account was as follows. He was driving North on Highway 167 when he saw, some distance away, a new car passing up a very old car at a slow pace, so slow that they appeared to be nearly stopped. He saw the new car pull onto the shoulder and the old car started to do the same.


Momentarily, it obstructed the new car and then suddenly disappeared. All that remained ahead of him was the new car on the shoulder of the highway. Desperate to associate logic to this incredible sight, he immediately assumed an accident had occurred. Indeed, an accident had not occurred, but something more haunting, perhaps as tragic, and certainly more mysterious had.
After discussing what each had seen from his perspective, the three men walked the area for an hour.
third man, who was from out of state, insisted on reporting the incident to the police. He felt that it was a "missing person" situation and that they had been witnesses.

Lyon and Charlie refused to do so as they had no idea where the woman and child along with the car had gone. They were missing alright, but no police on this plane of existence had the power to find them. The third man finally decided that without their cooperation he could not report this on his own for fear his sanity would be questioned. He did exchange addresses and phone numbers with Lyon and Charlie. For years he kept in touch with them, calling just to talk about his incident and to confirm again that he had seen what he had.

Very interesting........

[NoelW]

I thought so too.

[NoelW]

Back in the 1950s, a Second Empire style house built in 1848 was owned by an old spinster woman, who the neighborhood kids called “the Witch.” She was a tall, skeletal, woman, who wore dark clothing and was never seen without a babushka covering her head. According to the stories told by kids - she kidnapped babies, ate them for dinner, and buried their bones in the flower garden behind her house.
At the time, the house was painted a dark shade of plum, which gave it a sinister look. It was located right next door to where my friend Grant lived. We often stayed overnight at each other’s houses, but during the Summer months we more often pitched a tent in either his back yard or mine.

One night in particular we decided to take our sleeping bags and ‘camp out’ in the tent in Grant’s back yard. At some point during the night we looked up from the tent and saw the silhouette of “the Witch” standing in a second story window of her house. She had the curtains pulled aside and was staring down at us. We pulled the tent flaps down and tied them tightly together. Feeling a bit more secure, we soon forgot about “the Witch” and proceeded to read our comic books with our flashlights. About an hour passed when we were startled by a scratching sound on the outside of the tent. Wide-eyed, Grant and I looked at each other and were paralyzed with fear. Was it “the Witch”? We sat quietly listening for a few minutes. But, when nothing else was heard we began to relax. We chalked up the scratching sound as having been made by a squirrel or raccoon. The inside of the tent had gotten very warm, so we decided to open the flaps again. But, when we opened the flaps we noticed a paper plate covered with aluminum foil sitting on the lawn right in front of the tent.

Grant pulled the paper plate inside of the tent and removed the aluminum foil.
Underneath the aluminum foil was a half dozen chocolate chip cookies. Grant deduced that his mother had brought them out to us. We each ate three. We continued to read our comic books until we both got tired and eventually drifted off to sleep.
The next morning Grant’s mother called us into the kitchen to eat breakfast. During breakfast I thanked her for the cookies. She said, “What cookies?” Grant said, “The plate of cookies you brought out to us last night.” She said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Grant and I looked at each other and we both thought the same thing....”the Witch!”
We spent the rest of the day riding our bicycles, but needless to say we both worried at what moment we might drop dead from eating poison cookies.

Forty seven years later I had an opportunity to see the inside of “the Witch’s” house when it was up for sale. Except for a previous owner having installed a modern kitchen and new bathrooms, it was everything I had imagined it to be. I even stood in the second story window of the house, where “the Witch” had stood to look down upon me and Grant camping in his back yard.
I thought to myself “poison cookies.” And then I laughed out load.

© T.N.W.

[NoelW]

It was 1989

I stopped at the Blue Benn Diner in Bennington, Vermont to have a cup of coffee while waiting for some friends to meet me there. I would be their houseguest for the next few days. Being lunch time the diner was crowded and so I sat at the counter next to an old man with scraggly hair and beard. His face looked familiar to me, but since I hadn’t been in Bennington for over fifteen years, I didn’t think it likely I had ever met him.
I couldn’t help but notice the old man kept blessing everyone. He blessed the waitress who brought him his lunch. He blessed the little boy who caused his worn-out coat to fall to the floor. He blessed the boy's father who retrieved his coat from the floor. He blessed a lady who accidentally bumped him with her elbow while struggling to get into her own coat. He blessed a man who sneezed, who was seated some distance away from him. And he blessed me when I thanked him for handing me the sugar dispenser.
Well, I must confess I thought his shower of blessings were a bit superfluous. I also began to think he was not quite right in the head.
But, I thanked him again and said,
"You're certainly generous with blessings today."
"Oh yes," he said. "I try never to miss an opportunity to bless someone."
"That's nice," I said. And I thought it really was, but I also thought our conversation had ended.
"Selfish, I suppose..." the old man continued.
"What’s selfish?" I asked.
"Blessing people." He answered.
And then he added, "You see, I believe whenever I bless somebody the blessing returns to me."
"I see," I said, "sort of like what goes around comes around."
"Exactly," he said, and then went on to say, "The ancients considered a blessing to be a priceless gift. They loved to voice their blessings and predict what good would come to those whom they blessed. They also believed to condemn or criticize a person or situation would only bring about more problems and unhappy experiences. Whereas, if they took the opposite approach and blessed the person or situation it would activate the omnipresent good within it, and witness a happy result from it."
I took a moment to consider what he said and then I asked, "Where did you learn that?"
The old man smiled to himself and then replied, "I learned that many years ago from a man named Emmet Fox."
I had to admit that I had never heard of Emmet Fox. So, of course, I asked, "Who is Emmet Fox?"
The old man looked at me with some surprise (which, suddenly made me feel stupid) and then he answered, "He was an author and one of the most brilliant and advanced minds of his day."
"Oh," I said. While making a mental note to do some research about Mr. Fox.
"Oh yes," continued the old man, "Emmet Fox once said, and I quote, ‘Bless a thing and it will bless you. Curse it and it will curse you. If you put your condemnation upon anything in life, it will hit back at you and hurt you. If you bless a situation, it has no power to hurt you, and even if it is troublesome for a time, it will gradually fade out, if you sincerely bless it.'"
"Well," I said, "I'll be sure to do some research on Emmet Fox."

Having finished my cup of coffee I decided to wait for my friends outside in my car.
I left a five dollar bill on the counter for the waitress, thanked the old man for our conversation and started for the door. But, then I felt compelled to go back to where he was seated and say, "Bless you."
The old man winked, took hold of my hand and said, "No, Bless you!"
We both laughed.

When my friends arrived to the Diner I told them about the conversation I had with the old man.
One of them smiled and said, "You know who he is, don't you?"
I said I didn't, but admitted he looked familiar to me.
"Why, that's Van Johnson," my friend said. “He quite often comes to stay with friends who have a farm in nearby Shaftsbury. He’s also a regular at the Diner. He sort of drives people cuckoo with his blessings of this, that, and the other thing.” And then with a laugh added, “I’m pretty sure by now he’s blessed every cow and maple tree in the entire State of Vermont!”

© T.N.W.

Charles Van Dell Johnson (August 25, 1916 – December 12, 2008) was an American film and television actor and dancer. He was a major star at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer during and after World War II. Johnson was the embodiment of the "boy-next-door wholesomeness (that) made him a popular Hollywood star in the '40s and '50s," playing "the red-haired, freckle-faced soldier, sailor or bomber pilot who used to live down the street" in MGM films during the war years, with such films as Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, A Guy Named Joe, and The Human Comedy. Johnson made occasional World War II films through the end of the 1960s, and played a military officer in one of his final feature films, in 1992. According to his wife of over twenty years, he was also a homosexual. At the time of his death in December 2008, he was one of the last surviving matinee idols of Hollywood's "golden age".

Emmet Fox (July 30, 1886 – August 13, 1951) was a New Thought spiritual leader of the early 20th century, famous for his large Divine Science church services held in New York City during the Great Depression. Fox was born in Ireland. His father, who died before Fox was ten, was a physician and member of Parliament. Fox attended St Ignatius' College, a Jesuit secondary school near Stamford Hill. He became an electrical engineer. However, he discovered early that he had healing power, and from the time of his late teens studied New Thought. He came to know the prominent New Thought writer Thomas Troward. Fox attended the London meeting at which the International New Thought Alliance was organized in 1914. He gave his first New Thought talk in Mortimer Hall in London in 1928. Soon he went to the United States, and in 1931 was selected to become the successor to James Murray as the minister of New York's Divine Science Church of the Healing Christ. Fox became immensely popular, and spoke to large church audiences during the Depression, holding weekly services for up to 5,500 people at the New York Hippodrome until 1938 and subsequently at Carnegie Hall. He was ordained in the Divine Science branch of New Thought. Fox's secretary was the mother of one of the men who worked with Alcoholics Anonymous co-founder Bill W., and partly as a result of this connection early AA groups often went to hear Fox. His writing, especially "The Sermon on the Mount," became popular in AA. Several pamphlets "The Golden Key," and "The Seven Main Aspects of God" are also widely read.

[NoelW]

Back in the day porches were an integral part of the American way of life. More specifically I'm referring to the people who spent countless hours sitting on their porches with their parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles. Sometimes a neighbor would stop by. Lots of times it was a combination of relatives, friends and neighbors. Instead of video games, cell phones, social media, or TV, THIS was where you learned everything about life. You listened to stories.


You gleaned pearls of wisdom, as well as you developed a sense of humor. You learned how to properly communicate and interact with other people in a respectful way. Topics of conversation ranged from A-Z. It was truly a non-condemnation zone. When we were younger, some of us had the benefit of multi -generational inputs. I was lucky to have had the benefit of both parents, grandparents, siblings, and many aunts and uncles - some of whom lived with us for brief periods of time. My parents house was always bustling with people, activity, chatter, and lots of love and laughter.


I was also lucky in that my parents house had two full-length front porches (at ground level and second story), a back porch, and an additional 16 x 24 foot screened-in porch, which my dad built above the garage. The porches were where people gathered to sit and chat after dinner. Or just to have a cup of coffee or a glass of lemonade on a lazy afternoon. My mother especially loved the screened-in porch. She furnished it with a sofa, several comfortable chairs, a table & chair set, and a full-size bed. From April to November of each year she slept ‘out there.’ She enjoyed all types of weather, but particularly liked a good storm and the sound of the rain falling on the tin roof.
During the Summer months there was scarcely a day when my grandmother didn’t ‘hold court’ on her front porch, where she sat to knit or crochet and offer tea and cookies to anyone who happened to stop by to chat. She had dozens of friends who were always coming and going. But, it didn’t matter to her if you were a child or an adult, she enjoyed conversing with people of all ages.
I don’t think there’s anyone alive today who doesn’t regret having paid more attention to their elders. Trust me, there's absolutely nothing that exists today to take the place of being surrounded by people who have more experience, knowledge, and wisdom, as well as your best interests at heart.


Those who didn't listen to their folks on the porch, but sought the opinions of people with questionable agendas are really lost now. It's not too late to get back to the porches and restart the heart of America the way it once was. LISTEN to what your elders say, whether you agree with them or not. You can discuss things, but remember the ratio of ‘two ears to one mouth.’ Down the road, when ‘the more you learn, the more you'll agree’ strikes, you won't be deprived of their truth and knowledge. And remember this, “When an elder dies, a library is lost forever.”

© T.N.W.

[NoelW]

A Sunday Driver

During the summer of 2015 I worked a part-time job at an Antiques Shop in Eagle Bridge, New YorK, which is located approximately 25 miles from where I lived in Bennington, Vermont. The route between Eagle Bridge and Bennington has a lot of twists and turns, but parts of it are long, striaght, stretches of road for as far as your eye can see.
When I was driving home one Sunday afternoon, I noticed a car in my rear view mirror. It was of particular interest to me, because it was an older model and I've always had a passion for antique and vintage cars. As it approached closer and closer behind me, I was able to identify it as a 1958 Red & Black Mercury Montclair. It was identical to the Mercury Montclair my Aunt Jean had bought in 1958.
I began to get annoyed when the driver of the Mercury started to tailgate me and blow its horn. The driver was obviously trying to goad me into driving faster, but I was determined to maintain the speed linit of 50 mph. When I finally came to a long stretch of road, the Mercury pulled out from behind my car and passed me by like a speeding bullet. It was then when I noticed the driver was a woman wuth red hair and that she was wearing white-framed sunglasses. She smiled and waved to me as she zoomed on by. In the zetosecond it took for her car to pass mine, I realized she looked exactly like my Aunt Jean. After she passed me, she pulled the Mercury back into the right lane and slowed it down a bit. But, as I followed her car around the next bend it seemed to have disappeared. Beyond the bend the road straigtened out again, so it would have been impossible for me not to have seen her car on the road ahead of me. But it was gone. Out of sight. As if it had vanished into thin air. My Aunt Jean died in 1997, but I've never been convinced she hadn't decided to take her Mercury out for a spin that Sunday afternnon.