Text Box: You’re invited to join the WILMORE WRITERS GROUP Now Meeting in the new Wilmore Community Senior Center at Wesley Village Thursdays from 1:30 to 3 pm in the Crafts and Activities Room New Writers Welcome Wilmore Community Residents Beginners and Experienced Writers Fiction, Non-Fiction, Poetry, Prose Get inspired. Share ideas. Write your own story or family history. Explore possibilities. Get help and feedback. For information call Shirley McMillan: 858-0385. Text Box: Tonight I slammed the back door and headed for the hose. I love squirting water and my personally-planted Swamp Cypress trees were begging for some. Soon long cypress branches and round green tomatoes dripped in appreciation. Two tiny basil plants swayed in glee and swallowed their drink in one gulp. A pain streaked down my arm so I turned off the hose and sagged into a lawn chair. The soothing splash of my pool's waterfall lulled me to the edge of La-La Land. Better go inside. My hand on the door. Oh, no! I'd locked myself out. I knew the front door was locked hadn't wanted any boogiemen visitors. Grrrrr. Now they could grab me outside. Had to get a master key from the village office. Streaking through the front yard in twilight, I nearly fell over a big, black mountain. My startled heart jumped into my throat. What was THAT? Oh, silly Ruth! It's only a pile of black garbage bags holding yesterday's bush clippings. They looked mighty spooky, all humped in silence. Blundering past my garage door, I saw the answer to my homelessness. The door was up about fourteen inches. How brilliant of me to leave it partly open. Could I slide through that and ignore the key? Sure. I'm not fourteen inches thick! Lay flat on the tarmac, pulled in my stomach and stretched my legs as long as possible. Nothing to do about my sticking-up feet except to flip'em sideways. Edging under the door, inch at a push, head and shoulders led. Next bottom, then heels and toes. What if suddenly that door rolled down and cut me in two? Long-ways. Nah. That little light stops it. A giggle started in my stomach and nearly choked me. Were any neighbors watching? Me, nearly ninety, dignified, on a Sunday, slinking into my garage like a Kentucky polecat. Text Box: I kept scooting and laughing through the opening, legs and waving feet in last. Success! I raised my head and bumped it on the tail pipe. Ouch! How stupid to park so close to the door. Squirming around, trying to stand, my back slid up the door. If I got too close to a shelf on one side of the garage, bush trimmers would fall on my head. If I got too close on the other side, a huge old cooking pot would jab my let-out stomach. (Precious heirloom pot. My mother used to cook apple butter in it. My brother and I loved to feed the fire, stir the pot and taste.) Squeezing past the car, I closed the garage door, brushed off my pants, drank some iced tea and sank into a chair inside my locked house. Sinister black bags still in the yard, but no boogiemen. I’ve just combed a bunch of leaves out of my hair. Tomorrow, I’m hiding a key in an old flower pot. --------------------------- Ruth Seamands is a writer who lives at Wesley Village and is a charter member of the Wilmore Writers. She led and hosted the group in her home until its recent move to the Wilmore Community Senior Center. Text Box: KEYLESS ENTRY By Ruth Seamands