It's 10 pm. Do you know where your Seniors are?

After the last Cruise Night of the weekend ended at 9 pm on Saturday, our weary but happy senior couple climbed into their 1960 Cadillac convertible for the slow drive home down winding, narrow, deserted Old Stage Road. Old Stage is one of our favorite roads. It's patched blacktop parallels the Illinois River for about 12 miles. Traffic and houses are sparse. Old Stage Road has no street lights, no center lines, and no curbs; it's just one narrow, dark ribbon cutting through woods and farm fields on the north and woods and the river on the south. Did I mention: no lights? Well, it is full of fireflies, owls, and frogs on a July evening. Because it is deserted and dark and surrounded by the woods. Deer are plentiful, also. And squirrels, possum and raccoons with an occasional groundhog or turtle trying to edge across the road. It sure takes us back to when roads were ROADS!

Cruisin' along in our Caddie, discussing the events of the past week (should be another Blog, by golly!), we were within - oh - maybe four miles of Seneca when a thought struck the driver of the car.

"Maybe I should have gotten gas again in Morris. We only put in $10.00 worth two days ago."

Now, $10.00 does not buy a LOT of gas. Especially when our Caddy only uses Premium. Do the math. It's about a squirt and a half.

We rolled on down the dark, deserted road for - oh, maybe 100 feet or so before the engine began to make starved, complaining noises.

"This isn't good". The driver stated the obvious.

"We need to pull over". (No...really?).

The engine coughed its last. The Caddy was silent. Coasting it's last few feet down the dark, deserted road.

"There's a driveway!" We spotted it together, and it looked reachable with the last of our coastability (is that a word?).

A typical Old Stage Road driveway peeked at us on the north side of the road. Two tire tracks of weed bedecked gravel wound through the trees. At the end of the long drive, a pair of cabins butted against even denser woods. There were no lights on. And that was okay by us. Seniors though we are, we could look a mite suspicious with lights and engine off, coasting into a driveway at almost 10 pm at night, and coming to a stop under the big, old trees.

"I don't hear anyone, or any dogs."

"Good thing, I think."

I volunteered to make a phone call to our friendly, local mechanic and 24 hour towing service. The driver was a mite embarassed to call.

As I took the phone out of my bag, I reflected on how beautiful and peaceful it was there in the woods on Old Stage Road. Stars twinkled in the perfectly dark blue sky; fireflies lit up the night around us as tree frogs sang to one another. Ah, summer.

Then the mosquitoes found us. The glow of my reverie diminished considerably as hordes of hungry insects, deprived of human flesh in the slim pickings along Old Stage Road, zeroed in for a good meal.

"I have organic insect repellent!" The compleat driver announced triumphantly.

"Let's use it!"

I do not know what is in the organic insect repellent that we used that night. I suppose I may make an effort to read the label some time. I do know that I have never smelled anything quite so evil. But it worked. I don't know if mosquitoes have a sense of smell, but I assume they must. They seemed to fly the scene en masse when encounted with the wall of stink we presented to the night.

I called our friendly mechanic's number.

"Hi!" I said cheerfully and respectfully when the phone was answered. Since it was so late in the evening, I was sure one of the employees would be on tow duty, so I explained our situation, our location, and our need for a tow, and ended by mentioning that we were good customers, too.

"Yeah, I know you are!"(laughter). Our mechanic himself was 'on duty'.

"So you really ran out of gas? Oh, man!" (more hysterical laughter). "So, where are you, anyway?"

After giving our location (we were only about 3 miles from his shop), I hung up the phone.

"That was Scott, himself. I think we aren't going to live this down for a while".

"Yeah", said my man. Yup, definitely embarassed.

It was less than ten minutes when we saw Scott drive up, and produce a lovely, full can of gas for the Caddy. He was still laughing. Through smiles and giggles the Caddy was given a good drink, and we were treated to the delightful roar of a happy engine.

"Home, James", I said. And that's just where we went. Finally.