Grandma Was a Bag Lady

By Phil Cross

(Proceeds from the sale of this book go to homeless charities)
A pet supplies traveling saleswoman, aged twenty-eight, picks up a seventy year old woman hitchhiker on the Interstate in the dead of night. They recount their life stories. The younger woman, committed to an orphanage in her early years, later charged with assault and battery, divorced, is now fleeing from society. The older woman, witnessing the murder of her daughter and husband became a police officer so to execute their killer mob-style, later serving as an undercover police informer in the guise of a homeless crone, is now a hitchhiking and freight train riding vagabond.

They have much in common. Neither has any known living relatives. Both had lost loved ones tragically, have serious second thoughts about God, and long for family. They decide to become travel-mates, adopting each other as surrogate grandmother and granddaughter. An odd couple, as they travel about the southwest in a van, sleeping in motels, smoking cigarillos, and sipping brandy. But their nomad way of life leads them into one adventure after another in which the old woman is not hesitant to use the .25 caliber pistol strapped to her thigh, while the young woman is inclined to demonstrate her martial arts skills.

Over the course of two and a half years they end the carnage of a serial killer, encounter sixteenth century ghosts, elude a Navaho myth, save a cat refuge, find out who is murdering pets at a sanatorium, get caught up in the murder of a Nazi war criminal, solve a mysterious poisoning, and settle for eight Spanish doubloons in lieu of one million dollars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Cross
• Release date: Nov 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301445448

Phil Cross

I found Him at dusk aside the railroad bank: A little green lizard perched atop of Him, that seemingly assumed invisibility on taking notice of me. He was in the form of a fallen tree lying stark naked in anguished repose I could sense Him calling out to me. I carted Him away to give Him dignity. Two days later appeared a lizard on my steps; lying watchfully, intently studying me, it was, I was sure, the same as before and then again, it assumed invisibility. Since then that lizard is nowhere to be found, as its master yearns southward bound— awaiting nightfall, it would seem, compelled to stalk for eternity. Could He be the Jersey Devil whom I aroused so fortunately? to be reincarnated for all to see? Or some alien on behalf of my senility. Oh, for a pen, paper, and flask of brandy, to be inspired by Him so to meditate, to rekindle memories or dream anew, I could write and compose for eternity. But I care not whether false or true for such are for me alone and not for you in no way intended for posterity; but rather, for my audacity.

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