H. Neal Glanville: ‘You’ll never guess what’s in our car’

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H. Neal Glanville

H. Neal Glanville's column appears in the Craig Daily Press on Mondays.

Attention, children of the Glanville girls, the following was performed on a closed stretch of private property by a semi-trained professional.

Thirty odd years ago, during the winter of colder than the bat tails of …, several families, including my own, were truly up against it.

Not much money for bills, though the people we owed in town gladly accepted any payment we could make.

Pride kept us, especially me, from letting anyone know just how tough things were when January started looking at February.

A plan began taking form: someone would venture out and “acquire” some fresh meat.

Each time we discussed who, what, when or where all sorts of “I wants” would come up.

How in the name of criminal activity can you even think once you’ve made this choice it’s going to be a delicatessen out there?

The back and forth about gas money and whose vehicle had me boiling my own wallet for lunch. I’d mention whose wife/girlfriend kept bringing these tid-bits up, but that would be a teeny, tiny bit embarrassing for the well-known older guy.

The plan still hadn’t formed completely, but I had to get the taste of wallet out of my mouth so I kinda sorta commandeered the Volkswagen bug your grandmother had purchased the summer before, loaded your grandma, mothers and Aunt Melissa up and went to Uncle Roy’s to charge some gas. Charging gas to commit a crime — I can feel a top 10 dumbest trophy comin’ my way.

The part still forming went unformed until we, excuse me, I, “found” the fresh meat we’d been looking for.

The member of our outlaw band that was allowing his garage to be used as a locker/processing plant had forgotten to tell his wife of the group’s intentions, and if we’d come back in 15 minutes, he’d have the miscommunication cleared up.

He was a heck of a salesman, so I had no doubt he could, but what to do in the meantime?

One doesn’t drive around town with “found” meat in your forward facing trunk, but right around the corner was Browns Café.

Browns was famous to adults for one thing, but to your moms, it was the whipped cream on top of their hot chocolate that made them legendary.

So in we went, and as your moms are now aware, it’s no easy task to rid multiple children of their winter coats, gloves and such, as they awaited mountains of whipped cream.

As they began their climb up the creamy mountain top who should have walked in but two, yup two, of Colorado’s finest Fish and Game officers.

Where did they choose to sit? Yup, the very next booth. I couldn’t quite hear the sound of the jail door sliding shut, but that particular noise keys make as the clang together was getting louder and louder.

“Well, hello girls” the older of the two asked.

“Is that hot chocolate you’re sharing with your dad before he goes to the big house?” I thought I heard.

The girls seemed to revel in my pain and panic, “You’ll never guess what’s in our car” one of them chanted.

I’ll allow the one responsible to accept credit where the credit is due.

The chant got louder as the sisters joined in.

“You’ll never guess what’s in our car.”

As I finish this up, my heart rate is a little quicker than normal and my anti-persperent is getting a C+ for effectiveness.

But I’m laughing and crying aloud as I remember dragging three girls out of Browns Café chanting “You’ll never guess what’s in our car.”

Hey, you be careful out there.

P. S. Thanks for the gas, Roy.

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