I will soon be going on my first official road-trip to soak up some of the historic atmosphere in my new home state; as it will entail a two-night stay at a bed and breakfast in Bisbee, I plan to take some earplugs. Not for myself, but for the hapless friend who will be sharing the room with me both nights.

    It seems that I may snore sometimes. I did not know that I snore. How could I? Until recently, anybody who might conceivably have experienced my nocturnal rumblings had wisely refrained from commenting on them. But I had occasion to share a room with another friend last year, and she informed me in no uncertain terms that I had the most creative repertoire of noises she had ever heard. Somehow, I do not think she meant this in a good way. I questioned my husband closely upon my return home, and he assured me that I only occasionally make little snuffling sounds, and that he likes them. I fear the truth is not in him, but he’s a good man.

    So, in light of my friend’s telling comments, and my husband’s gentle fibs, I’m biting the bullet and at least admitting to the possibility that I snore sometimes - unlike my parents’ good friend Scottie. Since "I digress, therefore I am" is a personal motto of mine, I shall now tell you the story of Scottie and the tape recorder.

    Scottie was a widow who owned a couple of highly successful eateries on Wall Street when my mother, a recent widow herself, met her in Manhattan. My mother took a job that entailed moving to Chicago, but she and Scottie kept in touch. After my mother married my father, Scottie was a frequent guest in our home. She traveled extensively, and it was always a thrill for me when she came to visit; she regaled us with fascinating tales of her travels, and brought me wondrous gifts from all over the world.

    Whenever Scottie came to visit, she would stay in my room, while I slept on a cot in my parents’ room next door. Every night, the rafters would rattle and vibrate from the sound of the logs being sawn by our houseguest. My father was no slouch in that department himself, but Scottie snored rings around him.

    One morning, she complained of a sore throat. My father innocently remarked that snoring often gave him a sore throat in the mornings, too, and that it would pass. Scottie regarded him coldly.

    "I do not snore."

    "Well, actually you do," my father replied, with more verity than good sense.

    "Libby, tell your husband that I do not snore."

    "Well, Scottie…sometimes…."

    Scottie didn’t wait to hear the rest. She stalked out of the kitchen with her coffee and the newspaper, and returned to her room.

    My father had a devilish sense of humor. He also had a tape recorder.

    It was a huge reel-to-reel monstrosity that barely fit under my bed, but the tapes were good for at least two hours, which he figured would be sufficient. My mother hovered around saying "Oh, Jim, you really shouldn’t," but there was a gleam in her eye, too. Scottie could be a tad overbearing at times, and a bit condescending to the two yokels from Indiana and Oklahoma, what with her being a world traveler and all.

    I was roped in as their accomplice. Only five, and already I was taking my first steps down the primrose path to perdition. I was sent in to kiss Scottie good night, and to turn on the tape recorder my father had readied under the bed.

    Then, they waited. As luck would have it, the concert was particularly cacophonous that night. My parents completely forgot I was in the room with them, compromising their dignity and parental gravitas by snickering like a couple of school kids ogling a smutty magazine behind the gym at recess.

    The next evening, after serving cocktails, my father switched on the tape recorder. What sounded like the snuffling and snorts of a rampant boar crashed through the living room, bringing all conversation to a screeching halt.

    We will draw a curtain over the ensuing dialogue, and only relate that there was a slight chill in the air for the rest of Scottie’s visit. Her parting remark to my father was "I don’t snore." Wisely, albeit tardily, he agreed.

    She visited many more times before my father’s death three years later, but somehow the topic of snoring never came up again.

    Now that’s what I call magnificent denial!