Listen, this is my favorite story of “the things Cousin Yvonne would say.”

I have written many stories concerning my adventures with Cousin Yvonne. I wrote many of them for her grandchildren who were young at the time of her death. There were a couple of stories concerning Yvonne that I never told except in intimate gatherings. Well, her grandchildren are grown with children of their own and what is more intimate than Facebook?
Once in a time long ago and faraway, the summer of ‘83, Cousin Yvonne, Frank Coley and I took a road trip. Yvonne had charted the trip from Shuffletown to the Outer Banks. She rode shotgun. I drove and Frank Coley sat in the back seat. He was the official beer drinker. During our five days of freedom, not one of us had a serious thought that wasn’t quickly extinguished.
A slight error was made in the length of time it took to make the first leg of the trip. We forgot to include the many extra stops we made on our way. It was after midnight, when we reached wherever we were to stop and sleep.
In the primitive world of the 1980s, the highways ran through a sleeping silent world void of blinking neon lights. Most of the existing motels and inns were closed up for the night by eleven. We looked and looked for a place to sleep. All we needed was a room with two full beds. We were budgeting.
But that is not what we got. Since all this happened in a time of long ago, I dimly remember recalling antique furniture, a roll-out bed for Frank and a double for us cousins. What I remember is more like a rental living room in a private home. Following this first night of sleep, I endured the nightly obligatory and colorful comments concerning my snoring.
The next morning, after refueling with junk food, gas and an extra twelve pack of beer, we set out for the Cape Lookout National Seashore. The trip was merry and foolish. For two days, we stayed somewhere in a motel with a pool. While I read a book in the room, Yvonne and Frank were tanning and drinking by the pool. Close to noon, Frank shot through the door like he was being chased.
“#%^&*(@#, there is a man out there with his family. He has a large chain hanging from his jeans and they are waiting for friends.”
“He’s been throwing his children into the pool and it’s aggravating, but Yvonne just sat up and hollered at him to say that if he threw his son into the pool one more time, I was going to beat him up. Look out the window to see what is going on.”
“I see a large man throwing a boy into the swimming pool,” I answered.
“Do you see Yvonne?”
“Maybe she is taking a nap.”
“You hope,” I laughed. “Let’s go pick up lunch.”
“Great idea, I will change clothes and we will sneak past the pool.”
“You can hide as I drive by,” I said.
Frank was the size of a small bear. He wore an untamed full beard; he was a sports announcer, a freelance writer and a sentimental, gentle man. Other than that, like Yvonne and me, he practiced the sport of humor. Wit is a blood sport in the South.
As we drove past the swimming pool, Yvonne’s head popped up like a chicken. She hollered, “Frank, don’t forget, you need to fight him.” She pointed at a tall, big man with twenty-four inches of chain hanging from his waist. He waved to us but Frank was lying down in the back seat.
At the mid-point of the trip, I called home. We had ordered our food. While we waited for lunch, I used the outside pay-phone. Everything was fine, but there was a message for Frank. His girlfriend had called to relay the news to Frank that her ex-husband had passed away.
I walked back to the restaurant and while frowning, I said to Frank, “I have some bad news.”
They called my number. My lunch was ready. I walked away without finishing the sentence. When I returned, Frank’s face was in a state of horror. “What is the bad news?” He rightfully demanded.
At the same time, I heard Yvonne say, “She is dumb as broccoli. It’s a good thing she has big boobs. ”
Another day, I remember Frank and Yvonne throwing pebbles at me after a ferry ride. It was a revolt against my snoring. The obligatory snide comments now began at breakfast and continued until we slept. We watched sunsets, swam, frolicked, and tore through the five days like children in an ice cream store. Until it was time to go home.
At some point on the trip home, Frank Coley announced from the back-seat, “I am horny.”
“As the cruise director, I told you that was not included in the trip agenda.” I answered.
“All I want is a little pussy.” Frank laughed.
“God, me too,” Yvonne spoke up. “Mine is as big as a bucket.”
I drove off the road.

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