Carol Mays

Carol Mays wrote NEVINS and NEVINS 2 about a talking black cat. She also wrote MORTIMER, about a witch's cat. Her other books include  103 Crazy Ideas for Surviving Suburbia and  Escape from Sunny Shores with her husband.  

Merry Christmas, you say? For you maybe, but not for me! I mean, who ever heard of one of Santa’s elves getting arrested and having to do community service? That’s the mess I’m in now! You see, I’m an elf -- a real elf -- who just so happens to have made one little mistake and now I’m sentenced to 60 hours of community service during the Christmas season at this stupid mall as -- get this -- are you ready? An elf -- helping the imposter Santa at the Picture Gallery. It’s a mind numbing nightmare. On top of my 60 hours, I have to go to anger management sessions with this complete idiot -- some psychologist, named Dr. Phil. He kinda looks like the Grinch with his bald head and beady eyes. And, really I shouldn’t be here. The mall, I mean. It’s kinda all your fault -- well, maybe not yours but people like you. You see, most people think elves live at the North Pole, are short, eat tons of sweets and make toys all day long. WRONG!!!!!

Elves are everywhere doing all sorts of jobs -- not just toy making and baking. I don’t have tons of time to explain this to you but let me see if I can. There are two kinds of elves: Green Hats and Red Hats. Green Hat elves are construction workers, plumbers, electricians, you know -- skilled labor stuff. At the North Pole they do the baking, card making and any sled repairs needed. Red Hat elves, which is what I am, make toys at the North Pole, and are often teachers, doctors, nurses, writers and stuff like that everywhere else. I used to be a top Red Hat Elf before the Incident. I made simple things which kids used to want for Christmas: blankets, pillows, stuffed toys, and my best of all: Sock Monkey. That’s been popular for a long time until that bitch stole it from me and mass-produced Sock Monkey -- and not very well made I might add. I found out about it when Spike -- oh, you don’t know him. Do you? You might. He’s a Red Hat hot-looking elf with spiked blue hair, edible piercings, and a tattoo of a red hat on his right arm. Well, Spike makes wild, cool, crazy cool toys that do amazing things. He invented pop rocks, exploding volcanos, motorized scooters just for kids, well just about anything that explodes or flies. He’s so cool. Well, Spike is the one who told me that Candy Land -- the bitch -- stole my Sock Monkey and changed the look to get away with it. She thinks she is so wonderful just because she’s from the wealthy and famous family who invented the game -- Candy Land. She’s used to getting her own way and when -- oh, yeah she’s a Red Hat elf too if I failed to mention that but I guess you could’ve figure that out. Oh, where was I? I get so mad I forget what I’m talking about. Oh, yeah. She stole my pattern of Sock Monkey off my desk and instead of him being the usual brown sock she made all different variations of Sock Monkey -- that part was fine -- all she had to do was ask me. But the part that is not o.k. is that she makes them talk and say some nauseating, high pitch-voiced phrases that when you pull the string it makes a: pooshk sound and says, -- “Candy Land is my favorite game! Pooshk -- Candy Land is where I want to live! Pooshk -- Candy Land is fun for you and me!” It’s selling at an over-priced store ironically at this stupid mall. 

Well, I got so mad that I confronted her at one of our Christmas parties. It was such a perfect party too. Chocolate fountain, pizza, a crystal ball and rock- n -roll Christmas music. Spike was playing the electric guitar and singing. Oh, he’s so hot! 

“Candy!” I yelled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing stealing my Sock Monkey and making it your own?” She turned and looked at me with her perfect grape eyes -- all the guy elves love purple-grape eyes -- I have chocolate-brown eyes but you can see that -- and in her annoying fake-whisper sweet voice she had the nerve to say, “I don’t know what you are talking about. I checked and your Sock Monkey didn’t have your name on it. You didn’t register it. So, I just perfected it and made it more up-to–date and cool. Oh, and my Sock Monkey -- registered in my name -- has accessories. So, I don’t know what you’re talking about Peppercane.” She patted me on the head -- because she’s taller than me. I snapped. I completely lost it. On her. I never lost it like I did at that party. I can remember Spike yelling, “Way cool! An elf chick fight!” I kicked her knees then, I punched her face making her red velvet Louis Vuitton Hat sail across the room and land at Santa’s feet. Candy’s eyes rolled back, then she hit the floor with a wobbly thud. Santa looked at me with a grave expression. 

You can guess the rest. Rudolf couldn’t keep a secret if his red nose and Christmas depended on it. I was arrested, booked and put in a cell across from the real Grinch -- not Dr. Phil. There were some others there on the naughty list. I can’t believe I just snapped like that. I really can’t explain myself. I’ve been taking it from her all my life and I just couldn’t take it anymore. Dr. Phil says I’m a disgruntled elf and says I should, “just let thangs go -- invent somethin’ new and register your inventions from now on.” I wanted to punch him when he said that, but I just smiled and said, “Thank you, I will do that from now on. I am so fortunate to have your help.” Santa bailed me out and is giving me a second chance.

Well, I guess I better get back to work my break is almost over. I see a long line of kids waiting to tell the fake Santa what they want for Christmas. I hope it’s not Candy’s stupid talking Sock Monkey. Wait -- I’m getting a text. It’s from Spike! He’s asking me to the annual Christmas Ball! I guess it’s a Merry Christmas after all!

We were not a traditional family with the father having a career and the mom being a housewife. My parents were auctioneers of antiques and collectible junk. We were in a constant state of gathering “stuff,” selling it, and then getting more “stuff.” We were simply carrying on with the family trade my Italian grandfather started in Rhode Island during the Great Depression.

In 1969 we made a road trip from Corpus Christi to Providence to get more “stuff.” My oldest brother (the WWII baby) had already moved out. This left my sister (who is 17 years older than me) and my other brother (who is ten years older than me).

I was three. I remember my potty chair with the teddy bear decal.

We were quite a sight. My dad, who’d fought in the “big one” WWII as a SeaBee, had a huge, two-ton truck that he built sides for with plywood. He painted it white and wrote in black, old English letters: Auction Arena with our name and address on it. The top of the truck was covered with a heavy, green canvas. It clung to the truck and smelled earthy. Ropes, attached to the sides, swung in every direction as we lumbered down the road. The top- heavy truck swayed left to right like a ship at sea, but my father drove it with confidence and purpose. He would shift the gears— something that looked like a long metal stick. I sat next to it. A red button was used for over-drive up the hills. We would shut the engine off and coast down the hills to save gas.

Behind the truck, we pulled a little pop-up trailer that rode on two wheels. My dad bought it cheap at Woolco—the Wal-Mart of its day. We were like gypsies living on the road and setting up camp wherever we could. We never stayed in camp sites. We truly camped, and in 1969 so did the hippies. My father hated the hippies because they burned their draft cards, had long hair, and refused to serve their country as he had. Much later, he appreciated their view of things. But, in 1969, he hated them. And, on this one day, in Selma, Alabama, we stopped driving early and stopped alongside Soapstone Creek.

Colorful trees were all around. I couldn’t tell you if it was spring or summer. It could have been early fall. But I can tell you that the weather was perfect. Not too hot. Not too cold. The air was fresh, warm, and earthy. It was beautiful. We poured out of the long, bench-style vinyl seat, my dad on the driver’s side, my mother on the passenger side, followed by my sister and brother.

Someone had to help me out. There was no baby seat in those days. My dad made a wooden shelf balanced on the dashboard that hung from two ropes attached to the ceiling of the truck. It was a wooden hammock with a perfect view. Today, this would not be legal, but it was 1969.

My father and brother methodically made their way to the back of the truck to unhitch the trailer. My dad lifted it with Herculean strength, rolled it backward, then my brother cranked it in place to balance it. My dad then got back in the truck to move it up a few feet. He lumbered back to the camper, which he and my brother magically turned into a home. They attached the pipes to the top, and then it folded out. Everything was manual. The green canvas took shape, and that familiar earthy smell greeted us. The camper only had a full-size bed on each side. No bathroom, no kitchen, no conveniences at all. My brother slept in the cab of the truck at night. He loved it. Anxious to swim in the creek, he asked my dad if he could go and explore. Dad, preoccupied with something, muttered, “yeah.” My brother took off like a jack rabbit. I could see him wading in the water—his pant legs pushed up over his knees. My mother and sister were setting up the camp stove and chatting away. I stood next to my dad, fascinated by his endless energy to work. I don’t know what he was fixing, but whatever it was—it was important. He hammered away, tightened something, and hammered again.

Suddenly, appearing out of nowhere, a hippie approached us. He wore dirty jeans, an old cotton shirt,  loose-fitting, not tucked neatly in his pants like my dad. He had long, blond hair that waved in the wind like the ropes on my dad’s truck. Barefoot. He just started talking. No formal introduction such as his name, where he came from, and most importantly, why he was here in my dad’s presence.

In a cool, smooth voice he said, “I can dig it, man. I can really dig it! This is how every American family should be. Living on the side of the road, doing your own thing your own way!” He nodded as he said this. My dad never looked up. He just kept hammering. The hippie continued, “you need help with that?” He was so nice. He never stopped smiling. How could he be so happy? Our lives were miserable. We were hungry, tired, and desperate. We had to get to Rhode Island because there were wealthy people there. We needed the junk they didn’t want so we could sell it to buy food.

My dad was like a southern version of Archie Bunker from the 1970s show: All in the Family. Strangely enough, my mother was a carbon copy of Edith. They used to sing the theme song of that show; only my dad had the southern accent. My mom was every bit an Edith Bunker in her manner of speech and intellect.

Dad responded to the hippie in a low, flat tone, never looking up, “get the hell away from me.” The hippie was completely unoffended, calm, and accepting. He just kept smiling, nodding, and talking. “I can dig it, man. You’ve been driving all day with your old lady, and you’re tired. I can dig it, man. Well, if you need any help, we’re just over there.” He pointed to a grove of trees. I didn’t see anything there. Dad never looked up. He just kept hammering. My mother had been standing next to me, but I hadn’t noticed. The hippie was so intriguing. “Did he just call me ‘an old lady?’” My mother asked. Dad, still hammering, smiled and replied, “yep.” My mother hated hippies worse than my dad, and I think it had something to do with the ‘ol’ lady’ statement.

After dad finished hammering, he and my brother went fishing for our supper. My sister decided to lie down in the tent. My mother and I went for a walk. Everywhere, there were beautiful and colorful wildflowers. I gathered some in a bundle. Suddenly, a bee stung me. My scream probably woke the dead and the dead-heads.

Yet again, out of nowhere, a beautiful hippie girl appeared. She must have been 18 years old but not any older. She had long blond hair with a halo of sunlight. She wore a long prairie-style cotton dress with long sleeves. She was barefoot and smiling. She leaned down—which adults never, ever did for me. She smiled, smelled of fresh flowers, and looked like an angel.

Her voice was whisper-soft. No one ever spoke so kindly to me. “What happened?” My mother responded flatly, “she was stung by a bee.” The hippie chick leaned in closer to my face, and in her whisper-voice, she said, “you need aloe vera. Come with me to the van.”

She took me by the hand and led me to an old, dirty white van. It was the kind that had two doors in the back. I was crying hysterically. My mother followed us. The hippie chick opened the doors. Heavy, dark-gray smoke, smelling of burnt tea, billowed out. Two hippie men were stretched out side by side like cadavers on the cargo floor of the van. They wore dirty bell-bottom jeans, long-sleeved red cotton shirts, long hair, and brown, suede Hush Puppy shoes. In a loud, scary throaty voice, the one closest to me yelled, “shut the damn van door!”

Shocked, I stopped crying. My tear froze on my cheek. I swear I heard my mother, who was standing behind me, mutter, “oh, my God.” The hippie-chick was unmoved by the guy’s yelling. She made her statement about my situation like a cross between a defense attorney and a paramedic. Her whisper voice was emphatic. “a little girl has been stung by a bee. She needs aloe vera.”

The throaty-voiced hippie guy in the van lifted his head. The rest of his body remained completely plastered, like his consciousness, to the van floor. He looked at me through slitted eyes. I could tell I must be out-of-focus for him. The other guy never moved—a perfect cadaver.

In his throaty, strained voice, the hippie replied, “ok. But, shut the door.” He exhaled audibly. More smoke billowed out. The hippie chick quickly reached up to a plant that I hadn’t noticed swinging from the door frame. Another leafy plant was next to it. She was careful not to bother the leafy plant as she quickly snapped off a piece of aloe vera. She shut ‘the damn van door’ and leaned down to me as she had done before. “Here.” She handed me a long piece of a green stick. It was slimy at the end. I fisted it. She moved my fist around my bee sting. “You’re going to be ok. Just keep putting this on it.” I wondered how long she could keep up in that whisper-voice. No one in my family spoke like that.

My mother nudged me. “Let’s go, Carol,” she ordered flatly. I think my mom thanked her, but not as nicely or as gratefully as I thought she should. I never said a word, and I hope my gratitude was known to the hippie chick who saved me. My pain was sure gone. And, now, thanks to that odd smoke, I felt very mellow. An hour after the bee incident, I kept rubbing the aloe vera on my hand. Irritated, my mother said, “you can stop that now.”

My dad and brother came back from fishing. My mother told him all about the bee, the hippies, and the smoke. “Hmm.” My dad replied, then asked, “do you want to move? Go to another place to camp?” My mother looked away and said, “no. Where can we go?” I didn’t see any need to move. This place was paradise. My brother loved it too. We had an early supper of fried fish on a camp stove. Then, the unbelievable happened again. The first hippie guy—not the bee—came back.

He approached my dad confidently. I would have been petrified to speak to my father, but the hippie was just amused. Smiling, he said, “Hey, man. We’re going to run naked and dip in the creek. So, I just wanted to let you know, because you have a family. You’re welcome to join us.” He said this last part while looking at my sister. My mother was horrified. My sister, all 1950s-styled with bobbed blond hair and green eyes, looked at the hippie emotionless.

My dad responded, “Oh, ok. Thanks for lettin’ us know.” This, the only kind response my dad gave that nice hippie who didn’t have to tell us anything. My dad ordered us all in the camper like a military sergeant. We zipped it up tightly, closing all the flaps. My brother, ordered to his post in the truck, left dutifully. He may have even saluted. I don’t know. No one ever disobeyed.

Dad decided that the best thing to do was to go to sleep. This was his answer for everything. If you were sick, go to sleep. Worried, go to sleep. Naked hippies you don’t want to see, go to sleep!

I was not tired. A few minutes passed, and the silence broke with a holler. “Woo, Hoo!” Then, others sounding like they were running and ‘woo-hooing,’ joined in. Male and female voices like children playing a game of chase: feet stomping on the leaves, water splashing in all directions, laughter and happiness. I couldn’t take it. I snuck out of bed and tiptoed to the front of the camper. The green canvas filled my nostrils with earthiness. Carefully I unzipped the metal zipper one notch at a time. It was hard. After all, my parents were just a foot away. Excitement filled my every fiber.

Disobedience never felt so good. I got a small part of the flap open and poked my head out of the camper. There they were: the hippies—all of them—running naked! Young men and women scurrying willy-nilly everywhere. It looked like fun.

In the background of the camper, the silence was broken by my mother’s voice, “Carol. Close the tent.”

Nevins, a black cat, is sophisticated, tech-savvy, and wealthy. When he sees Clay, a homeless boy, in the park, he feels sorry for him. Read the first chapter.

Vigorous senior citizens prison break a nursing home

Life hacks from the master at surviving on your own terms

NEVINS, by Carol Mays, tells the story of Nevins, a proper domesticated short-hair cat. He is no ordinary talking cat. He is tech-savvy and wealthy. He has a staff. Even so, the world is prejudiced. A lot of people don't like the idea of a cat adopting a human 

Nevins Davenport, a proper British domesticated cat, sat on the windowsill of his three-bedroom two-bath white bungalow house as he always did at three in the afternoon. His tail swished left and right as he watched the children play with the various playground equipment at the Botanical Gardens. The sun sparkled on his black fur, creating a beautiful blue hue.

Today was obviously one of those special days, because the tables were set with bright blue plastic tablecloths, which kept blowing off the tables and interrupting the mothers’ conversation. Nevins watched them desperately chase the cloths. The wind blew one over a mother, making her look like a blue ghost. Nevins chuckled. Finally, the mothers anchored them back on the tables using an ice chest and treat bags. Red, yellow, orange, green, and purple balloons tied with string and tethered to a small tree danced in the wind.

On one side of the field, two boys were throwing a ball to each other and when one of them caught it, the other would yell, “Good catch!” Near the swing set, one girl hung upside down from a bar, her long brown hair blowing like fringe in the wind. Others played hide-and-seek, darting behind large rocks and tree trunks, then running fast to get to base which was a giant metal pirate’s treasure chest.

Nevins found the human customs endlessly fascinating, but, one thing in particular caught his keen, yellow-green cat eyes. A young boy stayed by himself in the clubhouse and never played with the other children. Come to think of it Nevins had seen him in the clubhouse before.

The clubhouse, the latest edition to the Gardens, looked like a miniature pirate ship. Volunteers had spent weeks building it using recycled materials. Four, heavy eight-foot fence posts were sunk in the ground and an old red wooden row boat was perched in the middle attached to the posts by sturdy iron bolts. Recycled pine wood was used for the walls, door, and roof. Tree-log steps with a wooden pole railing led up to the pirate’s clubhouse door. A black and white skull and crossbones flag hung from a plastic pole at the front of the boat.

The boy sat alone watching the other children play. He didn’t interact with anyone and seemed invisible to everyone. 

“Ok kids, come sit down!” one of the mothers yelled. “The pizza is almost here. Let’s light up the cupcakes and sing happy birthday.”

Nevins watched this strange custom. He thought humans did the strangest things, but this was the strangest. He wanted to get a closer look and smell, so he jumped off the windowsill and went out his cat door which was a small square hole covered by a thick plastic flap attached to the heavy oak front door.

As he emerged on the big front porch, a red Pizza World van with a giant globe on the van’s roof pulled up to the curb and stopped. It played music just like an ice cream truck. Nevins thought it sounded like the music box his human used to play every night. A teenager wearing a red t-shirt with a globe on it that said PIZZA WORLD hopped out of the truck. He carried three large boxes to the children and placed them in the middle of the table. A frenzy of arms reached into the boxes, grabbing slices. They ate fast and talked with their mouths full. Nevins thought the children devoured the pizza like a pack of wolves. No self-respecting cat would eat like that, he thought as he twitched his whiskers.

Deciding to stay on the porch and watch this show, he jumped on the old wicker rocker which had been his human’s favorite place to sit. The momentum of his jump caused the rocker to move back and forth. Nevins had to balance, which is no problem for a cat. He sniffed the air. There was a smell of rain mixed in with the heavy scent of pepperoni pizza. A gusting wind blew his black fur forward. Bad weather was coming. 

“Presents time!” The mother announced, her arms loaded with brightly colored packages.

“Yes!” the birthday boy exclaimed, shoving an unopened box of pizza and a cupcake box to a bench. Then he jumped on top of the table and sat down in the middle with his legs crossed. Unbelievable! Nevins thought to himself. My human would never have tolerated such bad behavior!

As the birthday boy ripped the wrapping paper off the gifts at a frenzied pace, the wind blew a blue plastic tablecloth over the box of pizza and cupcakes. The boy in the clubhouse, who was watching the whole scene from the pirate ship’s window, smiled when he saw the cloth cover the food. Why?

The wind kicked up fiercely, and it ripped the paper. Nevins’s ears went back with every RIP, SCRUNCH, and SWOOSH of the paper. A small fragment of brightly colored paper blew through the air and landed on Nevins’s shrubs. How annoying.

The parents rushed in to pick up their children. Each was given a party bag, but one fell under the table. Nobody noticed— except the boy in the clubhouse. The birthday boy’s mother frantically swooped up as much of the wrapping paper as possible and threw it in the park’s trash can. But she forgot the pizza and cupcakes covered by the tablecloth. Then, she and her son carried the gifts to their brand new black minivan and loaded up the loot in a side door that opened with just a push of a button. The birthday boy ran back to the tree with the balloons, untethered them, and scurried back to the minivan. They drove off in a hurry.

The boy in the clubhouse carefully walked barefoot down the log stairs. His blue jeans were torn on both knees so that each step he took down the stairs made his knees protrude from the holes. He wore a light green button down shirt, which camouflaged him whenever he sat in the grass. He walked over to the bench and picked up the pizza box and cupcake box that had been covered by the tablecloth. He carefully placed them on the table, and ate slowly, chewing the pizza and wiping his mouth with a spare clean napkin. That is what I call proper manners. Exactly how a proper housecat would eat. I like this human. 

The boy carried the pizza and cupcakes up to the clubhouse and then came down the log steps and retrieved the treat bag from under the table. He dumped it out. Two pieces of bubble gum, one black plastic comb, a pack of playing cards, some sunglasses and a chocolate bar spilled across the table.

“Score!” the boy exclaimed, hastily stuffing the loot back in the bag. He then ran toward the creek.

Satisfied that the boy was okay, Nevins hopped off his rocker and back into the house. The next morning he woke to a strong wind blowing leaves against the windows, and he started worrying. How is that boy in the clubhouse doing? Without even washing himself to make sure each strand of fur lay back perfectly, he jumped through his cat door and onto the front porch. The boy sat all alone in the clubhouse. He was wearing the same torn jeans and green shirt. I can’t stand this. Bad weather is coming. How do humans coax a cat out of a tree? Hmm. I know! With food!

He went back inside to his computer. What do humans eat for breakfast? They are not like cats who eat the same thing. He remembered his human used to like a burger place, but he could not remember the name of it. So, he did what any intelligent cat would do—he looked in the history section of the computer and found the name of the burger place: Wonder Burger. It made Nevins sad to see it, because it was his human’s favorite place to eat. With a heavy heart he pressed the button and typed the order. He paid for it using his human’s credit card. It would be delivered to the house.

While he waited, he pressed the button of the dispenser for the dry cat crunchies which he ate every morning. He loved the mixture of chicken, beef and fish flavor. His fountain circulated cold water. I love the way this water stays fresh. 

The wind gusted even more. Hmm… Now, how do I get the boy here? Do I go over to the clubhouse and speak to him? Do I coax him over to the house by meowing? I’ll just have to wing it! 

He jumped through the cat door and sprinted across the street. The cars always drove so fast that he had to be careful. One time he started across the street and a car sped up and tried to hit him! Humans could be so rude at times. 

But he wasn’t going to let that bad experience stand in the way of trusting the boy. After all, how many cats have scratched a human? He used all his cat skills to sneak up to the clubhouse. 

“Meow.” The boy did not hear him. So, he let out his most pitiful, “Meow! Mew! Meow!” 

The boy poked his head out of the window and looked down. His sandy-blonde hair is a bit overgrown for most humans.

The boy smiled. “A cat! I love cats!”

Music to my ears! This is all I need to hear to convince me I have chosen the right human. 

The boy scurried down the stairs and bent down. “Ahh. You are cute. You can live with me here if you want.” The boy held out his hand for Nevins to smell it. Then, the boy petted him lightly on the head. Nevins looked at the boy’s brown eyes.I wonder how old he is? He is very thin and small for a human.

Nevins tried to think of all the important things to remember about humans. He was impressed that the boy did not try to pick him up. Cats consider that very rude. The only thing ruder would be comparing a cat to a dog. That was the rudest thing in the world!

“Would you like to live with me in my clubhouse?”

Nevins was not sure this was the right time to speak to the boy. “Meow.”

The boy laughed. “O.k. I’ll take that as a maybe. Wait there.” The boy went up the stairs—barefoot—two at time and sprinted down with some of the leftover pizza. “I wish I had some fish for you, but this is all I have, and it’s pretty dried out.” Nevins politely ate a few bites.

The roar of a blue convertible sports car rounded the corner. The radio was playing some loud boom, boom, boom type of music that disturbed Nevins. The driver pulled over to text something, and the noise of the radio was so loud that Nevins wanted to press his ears all the way against his head. But the annoying music stopped abruptly, and a piercing loud beep was followed by an announcer’s urgent voice.

“We interrupt this program to give you the latest emergency broadcast!” The announcer’s voice was anxious. He stumbled over his words and took a deep breath. Nevins noticed it, but he was not sure humans could detect it. All he did know at that moment is that for sure trouble was coming and fast.

“The tropical storm is now upgraded to a category 5 hurricane. Hurricane Hector is expected to hit land tomorrow at 12 p.m. All citizens in the Corpus Christi area should evacuate immediately, especially if they are in low-lying areas.”

The sports car sped off and the voice of the announcer faded.

Jumping tuna! What do I do? Take in this young boy and reveal that I can speak?

“We’re in trouble little cat,” the boy said. “I only have this clubhouse to live in and I don’t think it will hold in a big storm. There is no way I am going to a shelter. There is an abandoned house a block away, but I’m afraid it may not hold either. Then, there is an old building four blocks from here.” 

Nevins could not stand it any longer. He sat up and spoke in his British accent. “You can stay with me.” 

The boy did not speak for a long time. He just stared at Nevins. “Oh, I think I need to eat something, little cat. I think I just heard you talk to me.” 

Nevins spoke again. “You did. And, my name is Nevins. Nevins Davenport. I live just across the street.” 

The boy fainted. Jumping tuna! Nevins thought frantically to himself. Now what do I do? He began to lick the boy’s face and slowly he regained consciousness. 

The boy lay flat on the ground just staring at Nevins. Suddenly, a Wonder Burger car pulled up to Nevins’s house and a woman jumped out of the car carrying a small bag. Oh, this is a mess! I flat forgot about ordering the breakfast. 

Nevins scurried quickly across the street and positioned himself behind a bush. The woman rang the doorbell. Nevins cleared his throat then said, “Just leave the bag on the small table next to the rocker. I included your tip with my credit card payment.”

The woman smiled, placed the bag on the table, and left. Nevins ran back across the street. The boy was now sitting straight up. “Little cat, did you just speak to me and tell me your name is Nevins Davenport?”

Nevins sighed. “Yes. And, I am trusting you.” 

The boy looked at him and smiled. “Thank you. My name is Clay. I’m an orphan. My parents died in a car accident a year ago. I lived with my grandmother on Elm Street, but she passed away a month ago.” 

Nevins interrupted, “Listen, I want to hear your whole story, but we need to get to my house.” 

Clay nodded. “Let me just get my things.” He ran up the stairs and came down with a small white plastic grocery bag. “Ok, let’s go,” Clay said as he jumped down the last two steps. They quickly crossed the street and walked up the steps to the front porch.

“The Wonder Burger bag is for you,” Nevins said. “I ordered you some breakfast. Come inside and we can talk.” He stood up on his hind legs, reached with his two front paws, pulled the handle down, and opened the heavy oak door.

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Call me “trailer trash.” I don’t care!

Let me pour you another cup of coffee. Drag your chair closer and listen with an open mind. I am going to tell you how wonderful a trailer is compared to traditional homes. If you find that your bills are piling up, and that your home is sucking you dry,then maybe this is something you need to consider.

I firmly believe that the best life is a house on wheels! I could list more than a hundred reasons why a trailer is better than a house of any kind. Here’s a brief history. Trailers, in America, are a modern version of the pioneer days when settlers crossed the west with their possessions. They symbolize freedom, hope, and independence. While Americans are not the first to invent the house on wheels, we will not stop re-inventing trailers to suit our modern needs. Now, let me say here, I’m not trying to convince you to quit your job, sell everything you have, and buy a trailer. What I want to achieve is an awareness that trailers have as much or more value than a stationary home and are deserving of the same respect you give the country clubs across America. I know what you’re going to say. The pioneers crossed the west to build cabins and settle. But, I think if they could see what we’re going through in our houses, they would stay in their wagons. In fact, they would circle the wagons permanently, creating the first RV park!

I love my teardrop twelve- foot trailer more than my three-thousand-square-foot brick home. In fact, if my husband and I ever divorced—God forbid—I would fight him for the trailer. He can have the house and everything in it. Except the cat. But, that’s another story. The cat doesn’t like the trailer. He’s a terrible snob.  I know I sound ungrateful about the house, but I’m really not. You see, the house sucks in a lot of different ways—and most of all it sucks the life out of me. For example, I could spend anywhere from four to twelve hours cleaning. It depends on who has visited us and how long I let things go—which I never do because I’m a total clean freak. I purchase all kinds of mops, vacuum cleaners, cleansers etc. to complete this annoying task. The trailer on the other hand? No problem! I can drive it to the nearest car wash and wait behind the guy cleaning his boat. I can use all the equipment there and then, treat myself to a burger—which is generally right next door to the car wash or across the street. And, no, I can’t go out after cleaning the house. Burger places are far away from the suburbs and besides, I’m passed out after all that hard work. 

Oh, and best of all, I bet your house doesn’t’ smell like a new car every time you walk in it. My trailer? It has that new car smell all the time. I invited my snobby friend over to my trailer for a visit and that was her first response. It was truly nice of her. She’s right. It always has that new car smell.

Here’s some more cool things about trailers. You know how people spend a fortune on surround sound stereos? Well, in a metal trailer all you need is a regular radio, because the sound just bounces around. Oh, and cooking is with propane. Talk about fast! Somehow, everything you make tastes better. Eggs are farm fresh and fluffier, and coffee is bold and real—like cowboy/pioneer real, and cheap, not overpriced Starbucks stuffy flavor. You do have to open all the windows and the door when you cook in a trailer or the smoke alarm will go off for no reason, but that’s a small thing compared to the great meal you get. Someone once asked me if the trailer was comfortable to sleep in. What an odd question. It’s the best rest ever! There’s nothing like the comfort of those vinyl foam seats and fresh cotton sheets covered with a scrap quilt. Just think about this: the dinette transforms into a queen size bed, so it’s like breakfast in bed, everyday! If that’s not country-club life then, I don’t know what is. 

You look like you’re running out of coffee. Wine? Sure, I’ve got some wine. I’ll get it.

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. Trailers offer freedom. You see, with a trailer, I can live wherever I want. And, when I can’t stand my neighbor, or the area is having bad weather,-I can move. Try doing that with a house! You might ask where can you go. After all, a lot of trailer parks have gotten a bad reputation over the years. And, yes, I am sure there are those that need improvement. But, there are plenty of neighborhoods across America that are just as bad if not worse. There are all kinds of trailer parks and just like neighborhoods, houses, apartments, condos, and townhouses each one caters to the needs of the residents. If you are over the age of fifty-five for example, you might want a seniors-only park. They have fun bingo and card games, potluck dinners and other social stuff. They offer lower prices for fixed income. And, like anything else, if you are not happy, you can just drive your house down the road. You don’t even need to pack up. 

Here’s another thing to consider. Got rats in your attic? In a house, you need an exterminator, a roofer, and a carpenter just for starters in a home. In a trailer? Trap the rat, spray foam the hole, and drive away from the area. Problem solved!

I guess I should address what many people find most concerning about a trailer: the sewer system—if you can call it that. It’s really just some hoses. My advice: buy gloves to deal with the “black water.” All trailer parks have a place to connect your sewer hose. If you are off-roading- meaning you are in the middle of nowhere- then, you can’t do that. You would have to go to a dump station. Get the gloves. 

Oh! And, here’s another thought! Many homeowners suffer with foundation issues. It costs a fortune to fix, but not in a trailer. Simply, air the tires and crank the stabilizers on the front and sides of the trailer or drive away to more stable land. It‘s like that Dr. Seuss book, Oh, The Places You Will Go. I’d like to add you will park and park and park. You will even park in a park!

So, to answer your question: where is my trailer parked now? In our driveway. Yes, in the suburbs. I don’t care what the neighbors or the HOA think about it. The HOA can take me to court for all I care. I pay the taxes on my house, so I can park my truck and trailer in the driveway if I want. Besides, my trailer is so small you can’t even see it in the private alley. I think HOA’s are un-American! Don’t you?! 

So, this brings me to my big plan. Want to know it? 

You really like that wine, don’t you? I know I’m intense, but bear with me. Oh, you want to just drink it straight from the bottle. Good thing I didn’t buy the box kind.

Anyway, I want to generate a petition to dismantle all HOAs. Then, get the city to rezone all neighborhoods so that homeowners can choose to demolish their homes—you know when they have rats, foundation, and/or renovation problems or they just hate them—and replace them with a shiny new trailer! 

Oh, wait. You shouldn’t drink wine that fast. You finished the whole bottle! Wait! Where are you going? Hey, I’m not done telling you all my ideas! I’m just getting started. Oh, and one more thing, when you see someone on the road driving a trailer—slow down! It’s annoying to be tailgated when you are towing your home.

Remember this: it’s the trailer life for me!. Read more like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2022

Introduction  Surviving the expensive and challenging Suburban lifestyle requires a set of learned skills based on a philosophy of practicality, simplicity, and frugality. My ideas have their roots in my own desperation caused by living a part of my life in poverty, but they could - with a little tweaking - apply to any lifestyle.   I have been a housewife for over twenty-five years and homeschooled my two children living in all kinds of homes: small apartment, farmhouse, and finally settling into the full catastrophe: the suburban home. Suburbia was a shock. Having more humble roots, every part of it seemed extravagant. I have witnessed many sad things: people losing their homes, families breaking up, Empty Nesters and retirees all forced to move away. These were my neighbors and my friends that I had the honor and the privilege of knowing. I miss them all. I wanted to help every one of them, but at the time we too were struggling. Since my husband and I were born to Depression-era parents, we grew up learning certain survival skills. When the going got tough we were not only used to it, but trained for it. To those used to a more affluent lifestyle, our ideas were simply crazy. This begs the question: could my good neighbors and friends have survived Suburbia with a few changes and adjustments?  This book covers the difficulties we all faced and the ideas I found helpful to deal with those problems, which took years to develop. Hopefully, it is an inspiration to others in the future. Perhaps, if one idea saves you money, makes a mundane task fun, or helps you develop a better idea on your own, or even if it is just one of the recipes that brings your family and friends together then, all of the work to make this book possible will be worthwhile.  I adapted to Suburbia by implementing those Depression-era survival skills and common sense. I discovered that happiness came in small increments - things I did around my home. I maintained sanity through those years by doing crafts from recycled items, being creative on a budget, and making difficult and monotonous situations fun. Fueled by my own personal experiences through constant trial and error, uncontrollable situations, pure nuttiness, and a neighbor who said I had “good ideas,” I found light at the end of the laundry room tunnel and you can too!    These 103 Crazy Ideas are written in an outline style, encouraging you to add your own personal thoughts to the list. Some are cross-referenced to further stimulate your creativity whether you are a career/single parent, stay-at-home parent, or just someone wanting to explore a unique approach to doing things. Some of the ideas may seem obvious. This is written intentionally since the obvious is often overlooked. Each page ends with “crazy happiness” -- a one-line whimsical summarization. My website: CarolMays.com, contains some pictures of the craft projects in this book. Ask me a question or send me a message, and I will respond to you. I want this book to be helpful, and your satisfaction is my goal!  What are the topics for this book? Raising children, dealing with extended family, friends, school, bullies, budget, home, pets, redecorating, recycling, money, shopping, and travel. The middle of the book addresses the harder things in life that can hit us:  rejection, failure, loss, financial reversals, divorce and coping with a sick child. To deal with these more difficult problems, fourteen succeeding ideas, referred to as ingredients, explore basic ways to recapture that crazy happiness. Each ingredient has a set of components written in bold print. Many are written like the little sayings in a fortune cookie to make it easy to remember and again, spark your own thoughts. The customized recipes of this book add flavor to each idea and are designed to enrich your life whether you are gathering your family around the table or enjoying quiet time alone. So, get ready for something different, witty, and comical to help you make lemonade from life’s lemons thrown at you! 

  IDEA #1 HOUSE HUNTING   Survival begins here. The type of home you choose boils down to two elements: finances and family size. Don’t be distracted by aesthetics (i.e. pool, paint color, flooring, etc.). What you want and what you can afford can be miles apart, but don’t despair. Keep an open mind. What you would choose for your family with small children will sharply differ as an Empty Nester. It may seem unthinkable, but keep these life stages in mind when purchasing a home.  Listed below are a few ideas to help shape your decision.  ONE: Always keep your finances in mind when looking for a new place. Avoid selecting something at the top of your budget, because you will regret it later. Houses need work – even new ones. If you purchase at the top of your budget, very little money is left for anything else.  TWO: Don’t buy more house than you need. Basic formula: small family -- small house; large family -- large house.       THREE: Location is another very important element especially in Suburbia: corner houses may be bus stops, cul-de-sacs may have kid basketball games, and houses next to parks have activity – sometimes late at night. Visit the house you are interested in buying at all times of the day and night. At the risk of sounding like a stalker, park your car in front of the house, roll the windows down and listen to the neighborhood. Do you hear dogs barking? Any loud music? Neighbors yelling? Tropical pet bird squawks?  FOUR: When buying a home, keep reality in check. Focus your attention on bigger problems in a house: roof, siding, foundation, chimney repairs, plumbing and electrical problems.  FIVE: Before purchasing the home, try to meet the neighbors: next door, across the street and any others who would be near you.   SIX: Familiarize yourself with restrictions, city codes; see next idea:  HOAs.  Crazy happiness is finding your perfect home in Suburbia!