My mother had a 1957 white Ford Galaxy, the same car that was pulled out of the muck in “Psycho.”  She slipped on my father’s waders that he used for unsuccessful trout fishing in a nearby river.

It was summer, so I was in the neighborhood at the time.  My mom had a big bucket of suds, brushes, rags…you name it, plus a hose.  I went up to her on the driveway.  She looked pea green.  “Something stinks!” she said.  I saw her color go from green to pale like paste.

I smelled her and I said, “You stink.”  She gave me a vitriolic stare, and took off the waders.  Gagging, she looked inside an inside front pocket. My dad used it for bait, and had left a miserable tangle of dead worms in there.  The waders were hung over our fence.  My mom finished the car washing with more rinsing than soaping.

Come to think of it, my mother never washed a car ever again.  It became my dad’s job.  Oh, and the waders disappeared forever.