A few days before we left home, Andre and I ran into Roger and Jay at Cafe Martin. Ceremoniously, Roger placed three small plastic animals on their table, and offered us one as a token to take with us. He'd played with all of them as a child. Now, I only remember the black squirrel. Before I, the libra, could even begin to get lost in the agony and ecstasy of choice, I heard Andre say, the squirrel. We'll take the squirrel. That was fine with me, although it looked nasty, and not even completely squirrelly. It would remind me of the adventures that my beloved friends—Margaret and one of her other helpers—had with squirrels at Margaret's. We thanked Roger and told him we'd put it on the rear view mirror.

We'd been on the road a while before we remembered to put the squirrel on the mirror. First we had to find it; then I taped it on top of the mirror. And we traveled on.

As you know, we weren't even away from home for an hour before trouble began. The plague of problems with the Bounder that delayed us in Pittsfield, Albany, Missouri, Arkansas. Mukluk Annie's, Toad River. It would strain me and you if I tried to recall and list each incident and its location.

By now, dear reader, you may be suspicious that you have entered a Jonah and the whale story. The Ancient Mariner's albatross—shape changing in the spirit of our First Nations travels. And that is precisely the point. Somewhere along the way the squirrel came into question. Was the black squirrel the cause of our misfortune? We jokingly passed along that thought to Jay. We did have to argue, though: how can you tell? Is the squirrel bringing us bad luck, or good? Is the squirrel perched on the mirror, mostly out of our sight and thoughts, somehow affecting the aural body of the Bounder adversely?

Or was it keeping us safe in the midst of seeming affliction? Did it help us limp and coast into the mall at Pittsfield; help us lose power at just the right spot on the ramp entering the highway at 7pm so we could safely pull off onto the broad shoulder while we waited for the police? Did it help us find the right garages—the hospitable ones whose mistakes may have been revealed at the next hospitable garage, all of whom did not cheat us, which led us to the next genius mechanic who figured out the problem. Did it help us, when the spedometer quit working? Or when it suddenly refused to start two mornings in a row and Andre figured out why?

That is the question which remains to be answered. Weeks ago, Andre asked me to get rid of it. Get it off the mirror. I did. Get it off the mirror. But since one can't always tell the source of one's good or bad experiences, I couldn't just toss it out the window. So I buried it in my purse. Until tonight, when I took it out to photograph.

I have to admit that it isn't cute. Doesn't attract me or warm my heart. It never did. In fact, it looks a little sinister to me. And I wish I could remember what animals we left behind on that table. But here we are, traveling home. True, our mechanical troubles have wreaked havoc with our schedule and put many dollars in the pockets of garages and mechanics. However, I'd also say we've been quite fortunate. So tonight, I put the squirrel back deep in my purse. When we get home, maybe I'll give it back to Roger. Or see if he'll allow a trade.