I somehow managed to quasi-quiet the Grandkids from Hell by stuffing their faces with bad Chinese food that cost more than what I am paid in a month for column writing. Even the fortune cookies were absurd. Mine said, "Grass is green." Duh.

Praying for no MSG repercussions, I pile the boys into the car and drive around aimlessly while trying to think of a doable way to keep them from killing each other on my watch. "Hey, y'all haven't read your fortune cookies yet. Let's hear 'em.

Burns, the number two kid, jumps right in. "Me first! It says, "Beware of authority." That means I should beware of you. Right, Mammy?"

I'm thunderstruck. Among other appellations, at one time or another, I have been labeled a Throwback to the Sixties, a protester of harmful practices thrust upon an unsuspecting public, a rebel, even a troublemaker. To label me as an authority figure is like calling Osama bin Laden a Peacenik.

"Don't go there, kiddo," I tell him. "Don't even think it." I suck air through my nose, blow it out through my mouth, and slowly the relaxation response kicks in.

"Okay! Who's next? Who's ready to tell us what their secret fortune says? (I often use the word secret when I want to involve them in something other than the eminent demise of one of their siblings.)

Parker shrugs his six-year-old shoulders and gives me his quirky grin that never fails to make me want to eat him up. "I do, Mammy. I wanna tell my secret fortune, but I can't read too good yet."

My number one grandchild, Bugs, yanks the quarter-inch sized paper written in six-point type from his brother's hand and begins to read.

"It's a dog eat dog world." Duh! That belongs on a can of Alpo, if you ask me."

Parker is quick on the draw. "So who asked ya?"

I foresee the launching of a war not so civil, so I grab the instigator seated next to me in the passenger seat and squeeze his arm. Hard. No, it is NOT a pinch. "Why don't you take your turn now, sweetheart?"

" 'Meet trouble head on,' it says." He wrinkles his nose. "Like a person can meet trouble with his head off?" He leans over towards me. "By the way, Mammy. Where are we going?"

I don't have a clue, but as long as they're not braining each other, I'm going to keep on trucking down the highway.

"How about I take y'all to the place where your daddy lived when he was a boy?"

The silence in the car is deafening; they were hoping for Dairy Queen. It's been over thirty years since I was anywhere near the place. Desolate back then, I can only imagine what it's like today.

The entrance gate, surprisingly, is wide open as we approach, and there is not a soul in the guard shack. I sally forth with aplomb and boogie on down the macadam road that leads to the river.

I put on the brakes at the only stop sign and look around. Mercy! Things sure look different than they used to. Before going on, I look left, then right, and see nothing alive and moving. Except for the billowing smoke coming from the large chimneys, the place looks totally deserted. As we get close to the edge of the river where our house once sat, I point to the spot where our beagle, Batman, became a full-course meal for a bad tempered alligator.

Rounding a slight bend in the road, I glance in the rear view mirror just in time to see a truck sprinting behind me, the headlights blinking in furious succession.

"Uh oh, boys. We got trouble in River City."

Parker pipes up with, "Mammy, you talk funny."

"Yeah, I know. Keep in mind that I am a product of the Sixties. We invented a whole new language."

I pull the car over near a ditch and watch the two security guards swagger towards us like a couple of John Wayne wannabees. Attempting to look tough, the big guy with the red neck and Army surplus helmet frowns menacingly while snapping open his gun holster.

I smile wider than I knew was possible and bat the dickens out of my baby blues.

"Hi there! Is there a problem?"

"DIN'T YOU SEE THAT STOP SIGN BACK YUNDER?"

"Uh, huh. I saw it. I stopped. Wasn't that what I was supposed to do?

"THIS HERE IS A PRIVATE PROPERTY. YOU GOT BIDNESS HERE?"

I hadn't noticed a No Trespassing sign, but I could have missed it. I quickly decide to try to talk my way out of whatever it was that I did wrong.

"Listen, I used to live out here years and years ago. These are my grandkids." I keep that Ipana smile glued on my face and point to the boys who are so still and quiet that it scares me. "We drove out here so I could show them where their daddy learned how to fish for those good ole Edisto River catfish, and where Batman got eaten by an alligator."

John Wayne One looks at John Wayne Two. They nod in sync.

"STEP OUT OF THE CAHR!"

Overcome by a surge of adolescent courage, Number Two Grandson from Hell starts beating on the window. "Leave her alone, you big bully! She didn't do anything. Batman was a dog." That, of course, makes no more sense to them than my saying Batman got eaten by an alligator. No matter. I'm proud of the little tyke.

John Wayne One orders me out of the car again and that is when what is left of my Sixties attitude rises like a buttermilk biscuit. Lifting my chin, I make eye contact with him, which is almost impossible since his eyes are nearly covered by the rusty helmet. "No. I will not get out of my car. Not until you tell me who you are and with what authority you have stopped me. Give me your name, rank and serial number."

I am in big time Rebel Mode now and it feels so good. In the back seat, however, the Grandkids from Hell are in serious Mute Mode. Lizard lips are plastered over all their faces; their eyes look like fried eggs, sunny side up. They haven't been this silent since their first Trimester. Hoping to transmit reassurance, I grin in their direction and give them the thumbs up, but the only thing they notice are two heavies standing by the car door with a death grip on their holstered guns.

John Wayne One frowns at me but I maintain my rebellious eye contact. "My name is Jason Brown and this here is Wayland Hambright. We are on-site security." He stammers when asking to see my driver's license, which gives me confidence that I might yet win this round. (I admit to being a tad haughty when I whipped my license out of my purse and thrust it under his nose.)

He takes one quick look. "THIS AIN'T NO DRIVERS LICENSE. IT'S A DADJIM CREDIT CARD!" John Wayne Brown is yelling way too close to my face and I do not enjoy the fact that he ate chili and beans for lunch.

"Whoopsy," I say demurely and then hand over the real McCoy. "Credit cards are just like finger magnets to the ladies, you know." He doesn't even pretend to get my clever quip.

Number Three Grandkid from Hell hiccups, something he only does when he is nearly frozen with fear. The doctor claims it is better than sucking his thumb.

I look over John Wayne Brown's shoulder and see the only house still standing on the property. It's dilapidated and appears to be about to fall down with the next strong wind. I point to it.

"There were six of these houses when we lived out here," I say in a voice filled with nostalgia.

The eyes on the Green Beret wannabee are slits. Clearly, he doesn't give a hoot. "Ain't nobody lived out here in thirty years or more."

"Ya think?" I retort and immediately regret it.

"This here is a power plant, lady. We got hired on to look out for turrorists 'cause we was once Marines. They is turrorists all over the place, lady. Sneaky sons of ..." He stops short and glances at the three boys in the back seat waiting for him to use the B word. "We don't like people sneaking in here like you done today. You need official bidness to get anywheres near this plant. Understand?"

I look at him strangely. "No, I don't understand. Why are you afraid of tourists?"

"TURRORISTS! TURRORISTS! Them what's taking over our country if we don't round 'em up.

A loud hiccup bubbles out from the back seat.

"Terrorists? You think we look like terrorists?" I sneak a peek in the mirror. While it maybe true that I need a haircut and my nails could certainly use some attention, I don't look a thing like a terrorist. If I did, I'm sure Babe would have mentioned it.

"We're just doin' our job, ma'am. Protecting the good citizens from them that would do us harm."

The words bubbling on the tip of my tongue are, "And Brownie, you're doing a heck of a job." But when I glance back at the white-as-grits faces of my grandkids, I bite that tongue nearly in half and say nothing. No doubt my clever jab would fly right over ol' John Wayne Brown's head anyway.

"Since you ain't got no bidness here," he continued, "I speck you jist better turn that lil' foreign car of yours around and head on out the way you come in. Fact is, we'll be happy to escort you."

As we leave John Wayne One and John Wayne Two, I blow them both a kiss followed with a peace sign, which they cannot possibly comprehend. As soon as the open gate is far behind us, Burns pipes up with a pretty decent imitation of an Elvis concert M.C.

"Attention ladies and gentlemen. The turrorists have done left the premises."