Last weekend was ideal for painting. Dry weather stayed around for days. The weatherman predicted temperatures in the mid 70s to lower 80s. After being too sick to paint one summer and too broke the next, I couldn't wait to replace the chipping paint on the trim with a brand-new fresh white coat. Earlier in the week I sprayed all the wasp nests under the eaves and scraped them off the next night. Every night after work I sanded and scraped and taped and primed, all with an eye toward how much nicer the house would look after I remedied the neglect it had suffered for years. I anticipated the compliments and praise that would flow from the neighbors after I improved the view from their house.

Then came the pop. Or was it a thump? I thought a loose trailer-hitch ball I'd had resting on the hump had rolled under the brake pedal. After stopping inches from the car ahead, I looked all around under my feet. The ball wasn't there. In fact it had rolled but to the other side. I drove the remaining few blocks to work without a care. It must have been a fluke.

It was no fluke. The brakes didn't seem just right on the way home. Carolyn and I went to dinner in town. Undaunted, I drove the truck. That's when the awful truth came out.

As we left the restaurant I noticed an oily puddle underneath the axle on the left side. I had blown a brake line. Well, I thought, no big deal. I can change the line tomorrow morning and still get plenty of painting done. We went back home and I sprayed the line's connectors with penetrating oil so they'd roll right out in the morning.

Saturday morning came and I dug out some wrenches and crawled under the truck. I own some special wrenches that are made to slip over brake lines. They fit onto the ends so that they won't slip and destroy the fitting. The inboard fitting turned out without any argument. Then I slid the wrench on the wheel end. It slipped right around, neatly rounding over all six points with one turn. The "2X Rule" played in the back of my mind: All jobs take twice as long as planned. Realizing that the line was junk anyway, I snipped it off close to the fitting, grabbed a socket wrench, and popped the connector out.

"Hah," I said to the now-impotent piece of brass in my hand, "you didn't know who you were dealing with!" As I rolled over to slide out from under the truck, I cast a suspicious eye on the undamaged brake line going to the other wheel. As much as I realized that my non-painting time would double if I changed it, I also realized that having a warm sunny day to work on the truck was a blessing and that if I ignored the opportunity, the likelihood of the other line blowing during a mid-February blizzard would quadruple. With a quick turn-snip-turn, I freed the second line.

I labeled the right-side line so I'd know exactly where the replacement parts would go. Tossing the lines in my wife's car, after carefully wrapping the downward ends to prevent fluid leakage and marital discord, I made off for the auto-parts store in town. I dropped the cut ends in my pocket so that when the pipe-bending expert finished crafting the new lines he could put matching parts on them and I could be painting within moments of my arrival at home.

I carried the lines into the store and told Bob the counter man what I needed. He returned in a flash carrying two pieces of aluminum tube as straight as uncooked linguini! "This look like what you're looking for?" he asked. "Uh yeah, I guess so." I said. Then I asked, "aren't you supposed to bend it?" Bob looked around the store at the assembled Saturday mechanics, some of whom turned away to hide their smirks. With a sidelong glance at his co-workers behind the counter Bob said, "Oh, you can bend it by hand. It's easy. By the way, do you need that little notch right there? That could be tricky." I inspected the old line, which looked like a first-grader's coat hanger art project. I said, "I guess not. Do you have a tool for that?"

My philosophy is that it's less expensive to buy a tool and do a job myself than it is to pay a nice man who already has the tool to do it for me. I paid for my new lines and tubing bender and made my way home, slightly unnerved, hoping that a false move wouldn't kink the line and force a second trip into town. When I got home I laid the new lines down next to the old ones and copied all the required bends and curves, occasionally holding the old and new lines together to make sure that everything bent in the same direction. Even if I'm the only one who will ever see them, I actually did a pretty good job. The only problem was that when I was done, the new lines were about four inches longer at one end than the old ones! I wondered aloud how I was able to do that. Two thoughts came to me at once. First, since I bought standard-size lines instead of measuring the old ones and letting the store cut them, I couldn't be too surprised that they didn't come out exactly like the stock ones. Second, I had to figure out a way to use up that extra line.

I crawled under the truck for the second time just as the radio announced noon. I bolted the inside end on, grateful that at least we'd gotten the fittings right and then I worked the new line along the axle, past the shock absorber, and up to the wheel. I added a bend or two that the Ford Motor Company left off the original part, but I thought that the s-curve added a certain amount of grace to an otherwise plebian design. I attached the fitting to the back of the brake plate, and repeated the process for the other side. As I admired my work, I glanced up at a rusty little nipple just above the shiny new connector and I realized I still had to bleed the brakes!

For those unfamiliar with auto mechanics, "bleeding the brakes" is the process of removing air from the braking system. Most brakes work by forcing fluid from a large master cylinder down the brake lines and into parts at each wheel which apply force to a drum or a disc to slow the vehicle. When air gets in the lines it compresses instead of the fluid, which lowers the brakes' effectiveness and causes wrinkled metal and higher insurance costs. You have to open a "bleeder," which is the little nipple, and hold a small hose against it while a helper pumps the brakes. The other end of the hose goes in a bottle of brake fluid so the system can't suck air back in.

Muttering about the paint that wasn't leaving the can, I dug around and found my brake-bleeding supplies and picked out the tools I'd need. I put wrench to bleeder and pulled. Nothing happened. I pulled harder. Still nothing happened. Fearing that if I pulled too hard I'd snap the nipple off and turn a quick job into a major operation, I took the wrench off and gave the bleeder a friendly tap, hoping to jar a bit of rust or corrosion out of its place and free the bleeder. I replaced the wrench and tried again, sure that the overnight soak in penetrating oil did most of the loosening and the friendly tap would finish the job.

I pulled the wrench one more time, still being careful. And got nowhere. I decided a strategic retreat was in order and took a lunch break. I mulled the problem over, grousing over the rotten turn of events as I ate. About then I remembered that my uncle had once loosened a stuck bolt by heating it with a torch and squirting cold water on it. I also remembered that the oil I'd soaked the nipples with was flammable; I'd have to proceed with caution.

After lunch I took my propane torch, a box of kitchen matches and a cleaning rag back to the truck. Wiping the excess oil away, I carefully noted the position of the gas tank and struck a match. Seconds later, blue flame brushed the nipple. Small bits of rust soon glowed red. Just one second more, I thought, and I'll spritz this thing and it'll spin right out.

Just then I heard a whuff and a small cloud of gray smoke rose from the wheel. It was a reminder, coming just an instant too late, that brake fluid is also flammable! I sprung out from under the truck and doused the torch. Before long I caught my breath and my pulse stopped pounding on my eardrums. While I composed myself, I wondered if my insurance covers self-inflicted fire damage. Thankfully, the conflagration didn't amount to much. But it was enough to cook the inside of the wheel cylinder; I had just birthed a weekend project.

I watched as the last of the smoke blew away, wondering momentarily if my mom and dad were first cousins. How could I be so stupid? Just then I was through playing mechanic for the day. I left the truck in the driveway and painted the trim on the garage. At least I would finish one section of the house. The white paint flecks that remained under my nails after I washed up gave a nice contrast to the black grease from the brake work. I took Saturday evening off to rest up and plan the job of replacing the wheel cylinders. Once again, I had to do both sides, knowing that if I didn't my truck would do pirouettes on the highway the first time I braked hard. I stared dully at the TV.

Things looked far less dismal after a good night's rest. I stopped on the way home from church to buy the replacement cylinders. Bob asked if my truck had nine-inch or ten-inch brakes. I had no idea. When we got home I took the wheel off and measured the drum. Ten inches. After lunch I made a quick trip to town and picked up the cylinders.

"Finally," I said to myself, "I'm on the happy side of this job." The only thing between me and a guilt-free evening in the recliner was the brake drum. Drum-style brakes come with an adjuster which is accessed by prying the cover off of a hole the size of a lima bean and forcing one tool in to push a release lever while turning a gear with a second tool. When I looked inside I saw a part, one that wasn't shown in the shop manual, dangling between the hole and the adjuster. Lying on my side, I picked up the first tool and stabbed for the release lever. Once I thought I found it, I dug away at the adjuster, scraping away at it while nothing at all moved inside the drum. After several tries I realized that the brakes were probably worn enough that I could slip the drum off without fiddling with the adjuster. I crawled out from under the truck and jacked it up. Setting it on jack stands so it couldn't fall and squash me like an ant, I took the tire and wheel off. I pulled on the drum; it didn't budge. I sprayed the lugs and hub with penetrating oil and gave the drum a few persuading taps. The infernal thing held fast. I got out a pry bar and heaved and tugged mightily at the rim of the drum. Then I combined banging and prying with yelling and begging; finally, with a pop, the drum came free. And was I sorry! Various springs and broken parts, coated in generous layers of road grime, rust and leaked brake fluid, fell onto the driveway. One brake shoe had a big hole in its lining. Shuddering, I realized that I'd been barreling down the highway, carefree as a puppy, in a deathtrap!

I got out a plastic tub and started cleaning parts. After several passes with carburetor cleaner I could see several major landmarks; slowly I found the springs, clips and various guts that make up drum-brake anatomy. I started unclipping and unspringing, dipping each greasy, grubby part in the carb cleaner, rinsing away thousands of miles worth of gunk. I laid the pieces out in order and started the cylinder replacement. Just then I noticed why Bob asked me what size my brake drums were; it was so he could sell me the wrong cylinders! I sat on the cool driveway, shaded by my currently-indisposed truck, and I cursed. I cussed out Bob, the parts store, Ford Motor Company, torches and brake fluid! Words I hadn't used since my last major repair job rolled out like gumballs. My mood darkened even more when I remembered that the parts store closed at mid-afternoon on Sunday around here so I'd need to burn a vacation day to finish the job. We missed evening church that day, which is too bad...I had a few things to repent!

I called the office on Monday and told the powers that be that I wouldn't be in. My dad called just after I hung the phone up. He wondered how the job was going and if I needed any help. It turned out that I did. One of the parts I'd removed, which is listed in the shop manual as a "doohickey," is held in place by a spring at the end of a cable. Replacing it involves holding the end of the cable with a pair of pliers in one hand, pulling the spring back with a pair of pliers in your other hand, and slipping the doohickey back in place with your third hand. Seasoned brake technicians probably know enough about doohickies to leave them where they find them; I didn't. So I was glad that Dad skipped his usual Monday-morning retired-guys coffee break to help me out.

Back once more at the auto-parts shop I exchanged cylinders with Bob, picked up yet another pile of parts and returned to the job. After much heaving and tugging we replaced the doohickey. In fact we did it twice, just to show we could, and because we put it on upside-down the first time. One by one shiny new parts replaced old grubby ones. With one last parts run, we finished the first wheel in about three hours. After a good long lunch break we did the second one in about an hour.

At last the truck stood on all four wheels. I ran it, very carefully, up the barn hill and backed it down, pumping the brakes to set the adjusters. And then we bled the lines. They still need just a little tweaking but at least now I can get stopped safely. And that's important to me; as much as I like going, I like stopping even more. We've had wet pavement ever since I put the truck back together, and that's OK because I needed to rest up from all the heaving, tugging, pounding and crawling I did last weekend. But this weekend's supposed to be nice...

The chapel of the funeral parlor was filled with Aunt Bettie's friends seated in dainty wooden folding chairs, with the family all positioned at the front. Floral arrangements, some large and bright, some small and subdued, flanked her plain wooden casket, making the plain light-green room quietly resplendent. Great thick mauve curtains hung stately around the windows and behind the bier. Large round side tables each held brass lamps, accompanied by bowls of mints or small flower baskets. Off in a small side room an organist played mournful hymns from an old hymnbook. Aunt Bettie herself was made up in a way that she'd never been in life. Her hair was fluffed up and her final coat of makeup gave her more rosy cheeks than I ever remembered her sporting. She even had a heavy, dark-rimmed pair of glasses that were far darker than what she usually wore.

Aunt Bettie was my mother's sister. She made her own way in life, enlisting in the Navy during World War II, where she served as a parachute rigger. She married after the war, but it only lasted long enough to produce my cousin. Aunt Bettie worked as an LPN in a pediatrician's office. When I saw her at work, I would see her in the waiting room doorway in her starched white uniform and cap, tall and business-like, calling her young patients back to their exam rooms. There wasn't much money in nursing then; Aunt Bettie and Patty lived in a walk-up apartment that wasn't in the best part of town. She had a car for a while, but when her eyesight got too bad to drive she depended on the bus for transportation.

My relationship with Aunt Bettie was a strained one sometimes, particularly during my boyhood days. I was her only nephew on her side of the family, and I brought more rambunctiousness to family gatherings than my sister and cousins did; far more than Aunt Bettie deemed proper. Aunt Bettie was the absolute maven of propriety! I learned that well as a little boy, when I spent many Sunday mornings wedged in between her and Grandma in a hard middle pew at the Methodist church. Fidgeting was rewarded with an owlish stare; giggling won me a shaken shoulder and a hissed "Stoppit!"

I pushed Aunt Bettie's patience all the way to the end one Sunday when, after the ushers had taken the filled offering plates to the front of the church to be blessed by the minister, I noticed that they all stood with bowed heads and hands folded in front in almost the same pose one would assume at a urinal! I knew what I was thinking wasn't nice, especially in church, but I couldn't focus on anything else. My stomach started to shake. I tried holding my breath, but in an instant the shaking was all the way up to my throat. Before long the whole pew was vibrating with stifled mirth. Sure enough, the requisite shoulder shake came swift and sure. But it didn't cure the giggles. I tried to force myself to be still; I put my head down and squinted my eyes closed. I even held my breath some more. But the only thing that holding my breath did was force me to gasp in a huge gulp of air. My quivering little body couldn't contain all that air and I expelled it, still struggling to contain myself.

That's when the snot bubble happened.

As usual I didn't have a handkerchief, so I crumpled up my bulletin to wipe my nose. I tried to crumple quietly, but Aunt Bettie could stand no more. I disappeared in what must have looked like a mini-Rapture and found myself dumped in the nursery.

The service began. The room grew hushed; the minister took her place at the podium. She read some standard Bible verses and gave a nice memorial talk using stories she'd culled from her visit with the family. When she was done, my cousins got up to sing. The girls sang beautiful harmony, which made their performance all the more appropriate. Barb, who was closest to Aunt Bettie, didn't want to stand in front of the assembled mourners. So the four of them went into the anteroom with the organ. A few introductory notes warbled and the cousins began their song. I looked around the room. The men in their dark suits sat almost at attention, faces rigid. A few of the ladies bowed their heads and clutched hankies. My sister leaned over and whispered, "Do you think anyone wonders why they went to sing in the closet?"

I looked at my aunt in her casket and remembered the many Sunday mornings we sat together in church. I remembered the owlish stares and shaken shoulders. I even remembered late-night calls to her as a nervous new father, long after she'd retired.

And my stomach started to shake.

One perfect June weekend Troop 102 took itself down the Manistee River from a launch near Manton to a bridge over M-37 near Mesick. The river was wide, deep, and flowed quickly enough to be challenging. High rollaways bearing the sand-smoothed skeletons of long-passed trees greeted us at one bend. Most of the route contained only trees, wildflowers and tall grass. We were in Hemingway country, and I planned to enjoy every minute of the trip.

Our group consisted of an odd lot of energetic teenaged boys, eight canoes, and just enough carefully-prepared adults to prevent complete anarchy. We made camp on Friday night in a state forest campground. For those unschooled in Michigan's camping facilities, let me explain the differences between state forest campgrounds and state parks. If you camp at a state park, you will have running water, electricity, paved roads, noise and nearby shopping. State forest campgrounds are carved out of the woods in a state forest and are completely lacking in creature comforts. Unless you're an actual creature; then they're loaded with desirable features...Large, uninterrupted patches of sky for birds, trees and bushes for squirrels, and grassy fields for chipmunks, foxes and bears.

One other item unmistakeably indicates that you are in a state forest campground: Pit toilets. A sign on the one where we camped specifically forbade the dumping of camp garbage. The fact that the prohibition didn't extend to rendering plants and paper mills became obvious within about ten feet of the thing. From the number of times I heard footsteps passing my tent in the night, I think that the tall grass proved to be a valuable asset.

At breakfast Saturday morning I gave my usual Scoutmaster's lecture on safe canoeing. Have a "buddy boat" so that someone's around to help you if you get in trouble, I reminded my fresh-faced charges. No horseplay, I said, and stay with the group. I was absolutely confident that all the boys lived by "A Scout Is Obedient" and that we'd arrive at our lunch destination more or less together.

The last bit of breakfast trash hit the trash barrel at the same time the first canoe hit the river. I looked around to see that the new boys who'd never canoed before were with adults and that everyone wore a life vest. It was also the last time I saw the whole group for several hours.

I shared a canoe with my friend Mark. Mark is the father of two Eagle Scouts and is a terrific friend. He's also experienced with canoes and outweighs me by a lot more than I thought he did. "Do you want me to take the back?" he asked as I seated myself in the stern. I replied no, that I didn't think there was that much difference. I should have reconsidered when I could only get about three inches of my paddle blade in the river, but my Irish stubbornness wouldn't allow it. Instead, I figured I could simply lean out a bit and do a drag stroke to correct our course. We pushed off, full of the confidence that accompanies not knowing what lay ahead.

Once we launched, the river bounced our canoe from bank to bank like a bumper car! Mark and I saw both sides of our route that morning, sometimes with me going down the river first, even though we hadn't actually changed seats. I was utterly appalled at the way Mark whooped and hollered. Mostly he hollered at me to steer! What he couldn't see was that I was stretched over the side of the canoe like a crewman on a racing yacht in the America's Cup race, straining with all my might to touch that stupid paddle onto the ripples on the surface! If he could have seen the Herculean effort I made to save us, I'm sure he would have felt at least a twinge of regret.

We caught the troop on a sandy bank just in time to get the last two sandwiches and a can of pop. I gave in and let Mark take the back of the canoe for the second half, just so I wouldn't have to listen to any more of his front-seat driving. I must admit that we steered a much straighter course once we got the weight properly distributed. And I enjoyed seeing the broad expanse of the river before us, uninterrupted by the back of somebody's head. The forward seat also made it easier to spot the other canoes, which not only reassured me that the boys were all safe but made it much easier to spot some unsuspecting Scout who needed a good splashing. We glided up behind a couple of the older boys, humming the theme from Jaws: da-dump, da-dump, da-dump, and then I chopped the water hard with my paddle wham-wham-wham, sending a cold refreshing tidal wave down the backs of my prey!

"Oh, sorry guys!" I shouted as they gasped and recoiled. "Did I get you?" The response was swift and heartfelt: "GET MR. C!!!" And the war was on! Mark and I strained to outrun them and we did pull away for a very brief time; I never knew canoes could hydroplane. Unfortunately, Fifteen And Ferocious beats Forty And Flabby every time. Eventually Josh and Ryan caught us. The rest of the boys, aroused by all the noise, joined the battle. When the froth cleared, our canoe rode very low in the water, with the help of about four inches of ballast we took on in the fray.

Now, some may wonder if the scene I just described consitiutes "horseplay," a practice I strictly forbade just a few paragraphs earlier. My wizened, considered answer is no, it doesn't. And here's why: To me, horseplay is something reckless or dangerous. My sneak attack was carefully thought out and safely executed. Now, if those same Scouts had snuck up and got me by surprise, that would have been horseplay, because I could have had a heart attack.

Afternoon waned as we beached our canoes at the midpoint of the trip. We made camp in an abandoned state forest campground. This one had two distinct advantages over the first one. After a few months of disuse, the pit toilet smelled a lot better. The new spot also had campsites on a bluff overlooking the river. We camped on a point where the river curved, allowing a beautiful view in both directions.

I put my tent up and made my bed. While the boys started dinner, I walked up the trail to the biffy. My peaceful contemplation of the day's events was shattered by the screams of a woman in peril! "Stop it!" she cried. "Help!!" I concluded my business and ran down the trail to the river. Two men and a lady, all of whom were in their mid-20s and thoroughly drunk, paddled past. The men rocked the canoe, much to the terror of the young lady, who wore a pink bikini made of almost enough material to stuff the top of a trial-size aspirin bottle.

The trio beached their canoe next to ours. Fearing the effects of a nearly-naked lady on my charges' moral straightness, I walked over to meet them. "Dude!" the man in the bow called out. "Have you seen my truck?" I said I hadn't and asked him where he parked it. He named a point about four miles upriver. I told him where they were. "Oh wow," he moaned. "I guess we'll keep on going." I felt relieved they didn't plan to stay, but I worried about them traveling in their condition. I was doubly glad that they wouldn't find their truck; putting that bunch in the cab of a pickup couldn't have come to anything good. He started to push off, and then he turned. "Are you guys Boy Scouts?" he asked. I told him we were. "Oh cool!" he replied. "Right On Boy Scouts!" he yelled, and they paddled on their somewhat wobbly way. I hoped someone would collect them before they got to Lake Michigan.

I truly believe you have to make an effort to ruin a meal you cook outdoors. The menu the boys planned, consisting of tinfoil dinners de campfire and chilled bug juice served in recyclable plastic cups, proved them to be master outdoor chefs. Nobody went hungry. After dinner I went back to my tent to retrieve a chair, in which I would relax and enjoy our campfire. I crawled inside, somehow I lost my balance and toppled over onto my sleeping bag! "OK, just for a minute," I thought. But a day spent trying to tame a wild canoe and evading Boy Scouts bent on revenge used all my available minutes. I awoke with the sun streaming in the opposite side of my tent.

Somewhat disappointed at missing the campfire, I changed my clothes and dragged my chair outside. Everyone else was still asleep. From the golden shade of the sunlight I reckoned the time at about 6 AM. I spread out my chair, an enormous folding rocker I saved specially for Scoutmastering duty, and sat on the bluff next to my tent. I watched for birds, otters, deer, or any other native wildlife. Fishermen occasionally rode by, trolling upstream or floating with the current.

Before long the tranquility evaporated like the mist on the river as one by one the boys peeked out of their tents. We ate a quick breakfast, packed our gear, and were on the river once more. Mark decided to finish the trip with his son. A new boy named Tim joined me. We paddled right along, actually keeping up with the rest of the group. As we approached Josh and Ryan's canoe, I heard Ryan hawking a spirited sales pitch to a wary Josh:

"Dude...we should flip our canoe over!  Come on, it'll be fun"

As Josh expressed his doubts, Ryan stopped pitching and started rolling! The boys plunked in the river, bobbing like apples alongside their now bottom-up canoe. At that point they discovered that the river was too deep to stand up in and the banks were too high to climb. In short, they couldn't right themselves! I asked if they needed help; Ryan said they'd figure it out. Tim and I paddled off, leaving them to sort out their predicament. We waited around a bend, just holding our position for a few minutes. There was no sign of Josh, Ryan, or their canoe. I figured if they'd drowned their bodies would have floated by, so I was reasonably certain they were fine.

After a few minutes I asked Tim, "Well, should we go look for them?" He agreed the idea was good, so we paddled upstream to their last known position. Ryan and Josh looked a bit adventure-weary as they held steadfastly to their capsized craft. Obviously even to them, no solution was on its way. They gladly accepted our second help offer. I lifted the bow of their boat onto ours, turned it over, and returned it to the river. Tim and I held it while they climbed aboard. In a moment Tim and I turned our canoe around and the four of us paddled together the rest of the way.

A kind couple with a soft spot for Boy Scouts allowed us to use their riverbank as a take-out point. The canoe livery across the river wanted $2 a person to take out at their landing. As far as we were concerned, they could keep on wanting it. Tim and I approached the sandy shore and I pulled off one more sneak attack, this time on two boys named Scott and Chris. The battle was heartily rejoined. Fortunately, we had a chance to dry while we loaded the canoes on the trailer for the ride home.

On the way home we stopped at a Burger King somewhere up north and ate lunch. One of the boys said it was the best part of the trip. I'd like to check back with him in a few years. As his life unfolds he won't remember one fast-food joint from another, but the gentle rocking of a canoe gliding down a calm river on a warm Saturday afternoon is a feeling he'll enjoy forever.

Last week I left myself in a terrible quandary. I'd taken on the job of being my team's entry in the "Miss Relay" contest at our local Relay For Life. Pushing past my discomfort, I made my way through the local thrift stores buying parts for my costume, which included a garish black-and-white checked dress, large rhinestone-studded sunglasses and a clutch handbag. I tried for comfortable shoes, but nothing I could have afforded would have brought any comfort when I finally realized that I would appear at a major community event in drag.

I admit it. By the time Relay came I looked forward to the Miss Relay competition. The clown in me took over, and I wondered just how far I could carry the act. I tried the whole costume on at home and even took a picture just to get the full effect. Much to my dismay, when I looked at what I was sure had been a perfect Betty Grable pose, I was startled to see that I looked a bit like my grandmother, except for one important difference: That stupid dress gave me a butt the size of a boxcar!

The one thing that still evaded me, however, was a feminine voice to go with my new look. I couldn't go around just talking like me, but none of the voices I tried really fit the character. I tried high and gravelly; it came out way too Pythonesque. I tried low and sultry; I sounded like Mae West with a head cold.

Relay weekend came warm, sunny and dry. We took a few laps around the track on Friday afternoon, greeted the kids who came to play our games, and strolled through some of the other booths. Carolyn and I waited in line at the Survivors' Dinner as the starting time for Miss Relay drew very close. The summer sun spent the day heating up the dinner tent, the line crawled along, and I became impatient. "If we're not eating by seven," I grumbled, "I'm going to have to bail." Carolyn reminded me that she had to eat, so she wouldn't bail with me. That was fine; I just wanted to get going.

The official photographer took team photos at a spot near where we stood. I saw a few brave contestants already in their costumes, posing with their teams. Well, that settles it. I thought to myself. If those guys can get their pictures taken like that, I can do this thing too.

The serving line finally moved. I picked up a plate right at the very stroke of seven o'clock. Three minutes later we were served and seated. I wolfed down a large serving of what was probably very good pulled pork and excused myself. I quick-stepped back to our booth and climbed into the gear tent, pulling the flap shut.

Okay, I thought, here goes. I peeled off my purple "Survivor" t-shirt, pulled open my backpack and dragged out the dress, bag and sandals. I pulled on the wig and gave it a quick fluff, popped the sunglasses on, picked up my purse, and then added the finishing touch: A pink fake-fur boa I'd found at the dollar store. Stepping to the door rather carefully, as the old canvas tent had suddenly become very dark, I straightened up my dress...it was showtime!

Tossing the flap aside, I stepped out into the daylight. "Hello, boys and girls!" I drawled. There it is! I thought, I found the voice! Miss Theresa, it seemed, was what Peter Ostruchko of A Prairie Home Companion describes as a D.F.S.W.; a Delicate Flower of Southern Womanhood. True, she fell somewhere to the matronly side of a cheesy Blanche DuBois, but there she was...all Southern, and at least externally, All Woman.

I strolled up and down the front of the tent, playing to the laughter and amazement of my teammates. I paused and put a hand on my hip, thrusting out my behind. Then I licked my finger and, with a great flourish, pressed it daintily to my backside with a loud "TSSSSSSSSSSSS!" Our pastor's daughter, a young woman of about 25, nearly laughed herself to tears.

A local photographer, who's also the dad of one of my Boy Scouts, happened to pass our booth as the spectacle began. His double-take, augmented by the weight of the massive digital SLR dangling around his neck, nearly threw him to the ground. "You know where this is going," he said as he raised his camera. The front wall of the Scout Cabin, of course. As long as I was busted anyway, I decided to make the best of it and struck a demure pose. "Walk a girl to the stage, sir?" I purred after he took his best shot. We locked arms and strolled to the front of the event. I tried walking like a runway model, striding along placing one foot directly in front of the other. I shook what Mama gave me and then some, possibly tripping seismic alarms throughout the Great Lakes region.

Other contestants milled about in front of the stage and a large crowd waited in the bleachers. I estimated that most of the assembled beauties were in their forties, although there were a few in their teens. One brave young soul looked about nine, dolled up in a long black flapper-style dress with a red scarf flowing down from around his black beehive. I turned to a kid of about thirteen who stood next to me in a pastel-flowered headband and white t-shirt and mini-skirt. "You're one of the brave ones," I said. "It's OK," he said. "I'm getting paid."

The announcer called the event to order, asking each contestant his Miss Relay name, what team he was from, and why he wanted to be Miss Relay. I leaned into the microphone at my turn. "Hi, Ah'm Theresa, from the First Baptist Church team," I drawled, laying on enough syrup to float a short stack of pancakes. "Ah'm the 'Before' picture." I heard my friends laughing in the crowd. "If you're the 'Before' picture, the announcer mugged, "I'd hate to see the 'After.'" Ha ha ha, you're lucky I'm temporarily a lady! He asked me why I wanted to be Miss Relay. "There's only one reason, Hon," I said. "I'm in this to beat cancer!" The crowd gave its boisterous approval, and Mr. Announcer moved on to the next contestant, a tall guy in a tight blue cocktail dress and rainbow-colored feather boa.

Once we'd been introduced, the competition was launched. We had half an hour to collect as much money from the crowd as we could. Miss Relay would then be crowned at 8:15. Well, I said to myself as I waddled down the track, this puts 'drag racing' in a whole new light. I hit several booths, but somehow always just behind another contestant! Fortunately, people dug deep for a good cause. My purse began to fill out.

I made a special stop at the United Methodist Church's booth. A couple of my fellow former Scoutmasters watched the goings-on from their folding chairs. I made my way inside. Turning on the coy charm, I asked, "Help a girl out?" They both opened their wallets and dropped in decent donations. "Thank you boys," I said, dripping sweetness like a honeycomb. "Ah have so often depended on the khandness of strangers." Just to play it to the hilt, I gave one of the guys, a fellow named Rick, a pat on the bottom as I departed. Thank Heaven he had a sense of humor about it and didn't give me a right to the chops!

I finished my rounds in just under a half-hour, just in time to turn in my money and rush off for the team picture. I waited with a boy named Jared, who's about seven and fighting a cancer battle of his own. His older brother Nick, an A-Number-One caregiver of about 14, stood nearby. "Hey Jared," I said, "next year when you're better, maybe you can be Miss Relay and I'll let you wear my dress!"

He looked at me like I'd just climbed out of a spaceship.

"No?" I gasped, feigning shock and dismay. I looked up at his brother. "Well, OK, how about if we make Nick do it?" The boy in the black bandanna popped up a big smile.

After the picture, I went back to the booth for a short break before the crowning of the winner. Once the excitement was over, a little self-conciousness crept in as I waited in my polyester wig and pink boa. But what the heck? People knew the score, and I'd be done soon anyway. At 8:15 all us soon-to-be-former girls lined up one last time. I couldn't wait to see how I'd done. As it turned out, I hadn't done very well. I didn't even come close to the several-hundred-dollar total that this year's Miss Relay, in her long white gown, opera gloves and cape, brought in. Still, I'm glad I tried. And like the lady from American Cancer Society said, even if you brought in twenty bucks, it's twenty more than we had.

Rick came by as I packed up my truck to go home the next morning. "You were enjoying wearing that dress a little too much!" he said. "That old broad was a caution, wasn't she?" I laughed. "I think she's long gone by now. You're safe." I tossed the wig box and my backpack in the back of the truck. Miss Theresa may be gone, Sugar, but she'll be back. Maybe next year she'll be a salloon singer. I climbed in the cab, with only a little putting-away between me and a good hot shower. I drove off, humming a jazzy "You're Nobody 'til Somebody Loves You."