What happens in Vegas...is sometimes exaggerated

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By SHARON RANDALL
Scripps Howard News Service
Tuesday, May 08, 2007

I should've known something was up. Any fool could've seen it. Fool that I am, I told myself folks were just glad to see me.

When the invitation arrived for my niece's wedding shower, I wanted very much to attend.

Having lived half my life 3,000 miles from the town where I grew up, I have missed too many family gatherings.

So I booked a flight, packed a bag and arrived just in time to start nagging my sister.

"Hurry up," I said, "so we can park in the driveway instead of two blocks away at the Bi-Lo."

My sister will be late for her own funeral someday. Not that it will matter to me, as I will have already claimed my reward. That's what I told her. She is older than I am (much, much older) but when it's time for us to leave this world, I will insist on going first. God forbid that I should stay behind and have to clean out her pantry.

The shower was a barbecue hosted by my brother and his wife at their home, an old turn-of-the-century, farm-style house that our family bought when I was in high school.

After our mother died, my stepfather couldn't keep the place up. So my baby brother, Monkey Boy, a broomstick cowboy turned master builder (not to be confused with our brother Joe, who is blind) restored it to make it his home.

I wish you could see it.

When my sister and I pulled into the driveway (on time, yes, thanks to my nagging) Monkey Boy was waiting.

"Hey, girl, how you doin'?"

When my brother hugs you, you know you've been hugged.

"Better now," I said, burying my face in his barrel chest.

My niece looked lovely, all grown up. I remember the first time I saw her. She was two years old, took me by the hand, pointed to a video and asked, "You wanna see me on TV?"

The barbecue was just getting started. Small towns make for big parties, especially when the food is good. Guests were arriving in droves _ some I knew, some I didn't, some I'd not seen in years.

Here's the thing: They all seemed to know who I was, whether we had met or not.

"I know you!" they'd say. "You live in Las Vegas!"

"Well, uh, yes," I'd say. "We moved there a year ago when my husband changed jobs."

Then they'd smile and wink real big. Especially the men. I spoke, for example, with Jimbo and Cotton and Crip (his mama called him that) and several others, all of whom seemed unusually attentive.

I do not, as a rule, attract that kind of interest, and I have to say I rather enjoyed it.

"Having fun?" said my sister.

"Yes," I said, "aren't you glad I made you get here early?"

We watched for an hour as my niece and her fiance opened gift after gift _ the same kinds of things I'd gotten rid of a year ago when I packed up a house where I'd spent most of my life, and moved off to Las Vegas.

I didn't envy my niece. It is a lovely, liberating feeling to be on the downsizing side of life.

After the last gift was opened, I had another piece of cake, just for the flavor, then went to fetch my purse from a bedroom that had once belonged to me.

Nothing is forever, only love.

While saying my goodbyes, I learned to my horror the source of my newfound notoriety.

Seems my sister had told everyone, young and old, near and far, that I had in fact moved to Las Vegas to start a lucrative career as an exotic dancer in a gambling establishment for senior citizens.

"Serves you right," she snickered, "for nagging."

Perhaps I'll not be the first to leave this world after all.

(Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077, or at randallbay(at)earthlink.net)