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When time flies. . .

     They say time flies. They've got it right. I had a whole four hours for a quick lunch, car wash, visit with my brother, a few errands, an hour or two at Starbucks, my special place for relaxing and writing.  

     I arrive for lunch at the E.C. Bistro. Not a parking space to be seen. Three times I drive around the lot before I give up and head for the car wash. Great! There's only one car in each of the two lanes. I pull in behind an older, dusty green Mustang, which promptly stalls out. After three throaty "brrmmm-brrmmm-brrmmm's"—all of which go nowhere—from the Mustang, the crew signals me to pull over into the other lane.

     They're pretty fast here, so I'm on my way back to the Bistro before too long. Of course, the parking lot's still full, but I get a spot at the far end after a big ol' SUV rams into a closer space seconds ahead of me. I hike down to the Bistro, ready to relax with a bowl of their tasty chicken tortilla soup. The place is jam-packed. Long line. You see what's happening here. . .

     Lunch and the car wash taken care of, it's time to visit my brother. No parking problem there. My sister-in-law answers the door and the three of us have a nice visit for an hour or so before it's time to head out to do those errands—but not before sharing a few slices of a lemon meringue pie.

     I need a wooden stake for the yard, so I head over to Dixieline. After cruising down the aisles—and picking up a shiny red and black branch cutter plus a few plastic pot saucers—I give up and look for an employee, who then sends me to the wrong place. Finding another employee, I ask him and he points vaguely to an area down the way that has no stakes. Not that I can see. "Be with you in a minute," he hollers. As I wait, a third guy comes up. "Follow me." He says and leads me way back to an area where no customer has ever been. And there are the stakes.

     Four hours I had. Now I have thirty minutes—barely enough time to get an iced tea at Starbucks, let alone have an hour or two for relaxing and writing. Time flies.

     But I get the iced tea anyway and settle in with my computer—as much as you can settle in with thirty minutes left. I need more time. Maybe I can get an extra hour if my daughter Christy's home from work when Paul comes back from his trip to the mall.

     I call. She's home. Tells me sure, take an extra hour. Saved by my offspring! Paul needs a little help with a few things, so someone needs to be home with him. Relaxing now, inspiration hits and I type away on my computer as I sip on Starbucks black iced tea. Time, however, is on a roll and before I know it, I'm down to ten minutes. It takes 15 minutes to get home. No time to stop in at the furniture store nearby for a quick check of their couches.

     Maybe. . . Casting all responsibility aside, I drive to the furniture store and call Christy from the parking lot. "Would it be alright if I get home a little later?" Sometimes you have to beg. She says no worries. Owner Judi's in, so I linger a while, admiring her eclectic assortment of furniture. I didn't find a couch but I beat time—I was only an hour and twenty minutes late getting home.

     Yes, time flies. It's good to have a daughter around to catch it for you.

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