One Day in Panhandle

By the time I got to Jackie’s Cold Day Inn the Sheriff’s birthday party was almost over. I squeezed into the empty chair between Les and Doc Harris. They scooted over so we wouldn’t be jammed together. Sheriff Tom signaled Wendy to bring another round. We said our hellos and waited for Wendy to bring our drinks.

Jackie’s is my favorite bar in the Texas panhandle because it’s messy, quiet, dark, and friendly. But today, all the lights were on, the place full with people milling around laughing and talking like at a church social but with beer, mixed drinks, and finger food on trays lined up on the bar.

Tom was sitting back on his chair, arms crossed over his belly, self-satisfied as hell.

“You know this day started off pretty crappy. I heard ‘How ya doing, Sheriff’ four times before eight o’clock this morning. I said ‘Same old, same old’ each time but I really wanted to say ‘Same Shit - Different Day.’

“Started off with bad coffee. Swear to God my Rice Crispies said ‘Snap, Crackle, Screw you, Tom’. But after I went on patrol on the north side, my stomach settled and I felt better.

“You’d think there wasn’t much to see after you’ve driven the same roads over and over for years but I never tire of looking at the land. By the time my shift was over I was feeling pretty good. Then I walk in here, half the town is singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me. How could I feel anything but real good after that?”

Our drinks arrived. We saluted the Sheriff with our whisky tumblers.

I saw a lot of unfamiliar faces. Tom said look at a couple sitting at a table at the far end of the bar.

“That’s Jan and her husband. This morning I was at the crossroads near the interstate. Just a half mile ahead was the spot where Jan’s car rolled over, pinning her inside, couple three years ago. It was four hours before anybody found the wreck. She wasn’t hurt too bad, just a broken wrist and some bruising. Jackie said Jan compared the rollover to the first time she and her boyfriend tried to have sex in his truck.

“They were 17, knew what they wanted to do but didn’t know how. They couldn’t figure out what went where, wound up in a tangle of limbs and clothes, rolled out of the truck. He landed flat on his back, bumped his head on a rock, she landed on top of him and broke her fall with an elbow in his rib cage. They gave up and finally did the deed in a borrowed van by the river after his head and ribs healed. Kinda hard to believe that story but then I’ve had never been in a rollover.”

A van is roomier

The guy Jackie hired for the occasion began strumming his guitar, turning the tuning knobs this way and that ‘til one of the strings snapped. Some people clapped and shouted for more. The guy looked pissed as he searched for a replacement string in the guitar case. He didn’t have a spare so he gave up, put his guitar away.

The musician reminded Tom about the time he picked up a hitchhiker near Newman’s ranch.

“He was a kid, early 20’s, looked like he hadn’t slept in a real bed in a long time. The guitar case he carried had thousands of miles of wear on it. His shoulders slumped when he saw the cruiser like he was expecting another hassle from the man. But all I did was ask where he was headed. Austin, he said. Took him as far as Amarillo and gave him bus fare to Austin. Nice kid, on his way to country music stardom, maybe. Not likely, but you never know. I made a mental note to keep an ear out for the kid’s band, JoJo and the Barf Doggies. Shoulda got his autograph.

Switching gears, he said, “Remember Ed McCarthy?” Les and Doc Harris nodded. “I drove past his ranch today.”

Les looked at me and said, “Ed was before your time.

“You probly seen his place on FM1151, that big ole barn that collapsed years ago and the red brick ranch house isn’t much more than a shell anymore. The kids had grew up and left the ranch years ago; leased the land to a neighbor.”

Tom said, “I visited with Ed every chance I had. Wasn’t a man in the county who didn’t respect him. He was an ex-Marine from WW2, fought in the Pacific, came back, raised three sons and never talked about the war except once anybody remembers. When he died everybody was surprised that he’d been awarded a Purple Heart and two Silver Stars for gallantry in combat. Even his sons didn’t know about the medals.

“Come to think of it, the only thing he ever told me about himself and the war was about his voyage on a troop transport on the way to Iwo Jima. Five thousand men, he said, in a giant ship. One ship in a convoy of thirty or forty more; destroyers, cruisers circling in miles wide arcs all around, Navy planes scanning the ocean for enemies on the sea or in the air; an aircraft carrier off in the distance.

5,000 Marines, one ship

“Ten days into the trip the convoy was hit by a typhoon. The troops were ordered to lash themselves to their bunks. Below deck the tanks and jeeps, munitions crates broke the chains holding them in place and you could hear and feel the heavy thuds against the hull when the ship pitched and rolled. You would not believe that a ship as big as that with all those thousands of tons of steel would become airborne. But it did leave the water when the 60 foot waves crested. The hull slammed down in the troughs with mighty shakes and shudders. Yes, sir, that’s how high the waves were. Each time he thought that one more blow like that would split the ship in two. He saw men cry in terror. But ship held together and two days later the seas were calm again. Old Ed laughed at the memory, but not much.”

Destroyer hitting the trough of a 60ft wave. Most of the ship is underwater.

Les said, “Ed McCarthy, Semper Fi.” The three men stared somberly into their drinks for a moment.

Doc Harris nudged Tom with his elbow and nodded towards a table where two couples were sitting. Three of four people were having an animated conversation. The fourth one, sat there smiling and laughing along but not saying anything.

Doc told me, “The two on the right, that’s Chuck and Melissa Timmons.

Doc chuckled to himself and sang softly, “Mama’s don’t let your babies grow up to be Chuckie.

“Chuck’s the kind to make a fool of himself and be unaware of what he’d done. I’ve said it before, when his wife goes to meet her Maker, she’ll waltz right in, no entrance exam for her. St. Pete'll say, 'Come on in, darlin’, you’ve earned it.'”

Les picked up from there, saying, “To Chuck, every day is a brand new experience, meaning he didn’t seem to learn anything from what happened yesterday. Left on his own, french fries, onion rings, and hot sauce rolled up in a corn tortilla for breakfast, lunch and dinner is fine eatin.”

Tom said he remembered the time poor Melissa stood next to Chuck when he told the minister about a ballet he saw on TV.

“Chuck says, ‘the music was pretty good but it was the first time I seen women dance that didn’t take their clothes off.’ Melissa was smiling but her eyes were somewhere far, far away. Doc Harris swears if Chuck fell on his face he’d just lay there and graze.”

Seeing the frown on my face, Tom added, “But listen, the way we’re talking about him, we’re just having a little fun. He’s a good guy. Everybody likes him just fine. He’s a good provider, takes care of his own.”

“Who’s the other couple”, I asked?

“That’s Corrina and Stan,” Doc said.

“When they were in high school, Corrina had it all. Best looking girl, smart, Queen of the Prom, top kick of the cheerleader squad, the whole nine yards. Stan was the Invisible Man. Guys who’d been with him since elementary school couldn’t describe him to you. Even his picture in the yearbook was blurry. Two years after graduation they announced their engagement and everybody said, Who’s the guy?”

Stan's yearbook picture

I studied Stan and maybe it was a trick of my mind but he seemed transparent sitting next to his vivacious wife and their two friends. I wondered how had everyone had underestimated him.

Jackie brought a tray of fresh drinks to the table. She saw us staring at Corrina and Stan. “I know what you’re thinking but them two’s no mystery to me,” she said. “Maybe Stan isn’t exactly what the average woman might brag about, but he’s what Corrina needs. Just lookit the way she looks at him. I betcha she never looked that way at any of the showboats who courted her. You men think too much about looks. If only good looking people married, most of us... and none uh you four would be here at all.”

She was right. Again. We felt like 3^rd graders caught fibbing.

Les recovered first and changed the subject. He leaned back in his chair to show me his belt; finely hand-tooled carvings of Western scenes all around. “Stan makes ‘em in the tack shop he owns, the one next to the bank. He was bull rider with the rodeo for a while, quit that and got into leather work fixing gear for his cowboy friends on the circuit. Gets jobs from all over. Look under the buckle anywhere in the state, more n’ likely you’ll see his trademark.”

Tom saw Gary at the table next to Stan and Corrina and asked if he was still coming on to Wendy knowing she’s gay. Jackie said no, Wendy put those thoughts out of his squirrely brain weeks ago.

“Wish you coulda seen it! Wendy put her hand under his chin, nose to nose with 'im, looked him in the eye and real sweet like she said, ‘Gary, suppose it works in reverse and I make you gay?’ His buddy, Mike, about busted a gut and Gary gulped his beer and snuck out, didn’t come back for days.”

We sat for a while sipping our drinks, taking in the bar scene. Wendy and the extra waitresses Jackie hired for the party scurried around barely keeping up with the drink orders. Jackie was behind the bar waving a half-size baseball bat at the Fire Chief. It wasn’t likely that he was enforcing any fire ordinances. She was smiling and he was laughing.

Tom said, “You think he’s laughing about the emergency siren?” Les belly laughed and Doc snorted in his drink.

I didn’t have a clue.

“That siren’s gotta bit of history behind it,” Les said. “It was set up during WW2 as an air raid siren to warn residents in case Japanese aircraft were seen approaching. It looks like hysteria now, the Texas Panhandle being more ‘n a thousand miles from the Pacific coast, but back then the possibility seemed real as hell. Siren’s so loud you can hear it five miles away.

Not this big but plenty loud

“After the war it was left in place to warn folks about tornadoes and such. It’s tested twice a year. Everybody knew to expect the jarring whine on New Year’s Eve and the 4^th of July. So when a rookie fireman fired it up by mistake on a Friday afternoon in October two years ago, a few of the townsfolk panicked, thinking tornado, earthquake or something else, like a building on fire. Most of them just peeked out their doors and looked around.”

Doc Harris cut in, “The rig was on the roof at the fire station right above the Fire Chief’s window. When the siren started blasting the Fire Chief was scared half out of his file clerk. It was several minutes before he recovered his senses, dismounted, and shut the thing off. The girl was terrified. Nobody knows how that story got out.”

Tom said very seriously, “Me, Les, and Doc are still investigating that.”

By ten o’clock the bar was beginning to thin out, folks leaving by ones and two’s. The Fire Chief came to our table, said happy birthday to Tom, hello to the rest of us. He looked over his shoulder at Jackie and waved goodbye. Jackie waved back with her bat. No one had ever seen her use it but no telling when that day would come.

Tom got her attention and twirled his index finger in the air for another round, please. Jackie gave him a thumbs up and put the bat away.

While we waited, Tom said, “I ever tell you Jackie was palm reader? I didn’t know it ‘til 10, 12 years ago. Some randy cowboy from Lubbock was passing through, stopped in for a drink. Hat back on his head, leaning real casual, back against the bar, let everybody know his name was BUCK from LUBBOCK, like it was something everybody should know.

“He had a couple of beers and was chatting up the waitress. She played along just enough like she’s supposed to, get the customers to keep drinking, you know. Service with a smile, jerk. He’s watching her serving beer, doing her job, all the time talking to her loud enough to irritate everybody including me.

“I was about to go over and give him a little talk about disturbing the other patrons’ peace and quiet when Lilly, the waitress, went to put a tray of empties on the bar next to where Bucky was standing. He turned around facing the bar still chatting her up. He put his hand on her neck, leaning in to talk to her, low and quiet. What he didn’t know was that Lilly was Jackie’s niece and that Jackie had that half-size Louisville Slugger under the bar.

“Lilly was squirming, he was so busy pawing her neck and sweet talking, he didn’t see Jackie come over, the Slugger in her hand. She grabbed the thumb on his free hand and give it hard twist so his palm was up. Then she said, ‘Bucky Boy, I bet you didn’t know I can read palms and tell fortunes.’ 

“Man’s bent over the bar in a lotta pain already but she twisted his thumb a little more, traced the lines in his palm with the business end of the bat and said, ’Cordin’ to my powers reading life lines you have a long life ahead of you if you mind your manners and keep your hands off my girl.’

Jackie's equalizer makes her 6'2", 190 lbs.

“When she let go, Buck drew himself up like he was gonna get mean. That cowboy was at least a foot taller and 50 pounds heavier, but Jackie stood her ground tapping the bat on the edge of the bar. If I remember right she said, ‘Listen up, Bucky from Lubbock. I been married three times, outlived the first one, ran off the second one, shot the third one between the eyes. You got something you wanna say to me?’

“He ain’t been back.”

“Is that true?” I asked.

“Which part? Bucky or the three husbands? I’m sure about Bucky. I saw it with my own two eyes but somebody else’s gonna have to ask her about the other.”

   

Thirty Women Walk Into A Bar

Sheriff Tom was leaving Jackie’s Cold Day Inn just as I was arriving. “Don’t go inside,” he said. “Women Only Night starts in half an hour. No men allowed. If you wanna drink let’s go to my office. I got some Kentucky bourbon I took offa the Johnson boy. He said it was for his daddy but I know his daddy don’t drink bourbon. Too mild, he says, no substitute for white lightning.”

Tom served up two fingers of bourbon in a glass for me and two in a cup for himself.

“So what’s the story on Women Only Night?”

“Ask around you’ll hear all kinds of doings that just ain’t true. The women won’t say and the men plain don’t know. I don’t know all of it for sure. My wife never misses a meeting. After the third meeting I asked her what they talked about, she says, ‘space, time, and the immutability of the soul’. We been married a lotta years. She answers like that it means ‘none of your business, sweetheart.’ I’m smart enough to let it go."

He rolled his chair back and put his feet up on his desk. I settled in for a story.

“You know why men like me become law enforcement?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“We do it because we’re curious, always wanna know who, what, when, where, why, and how. My wife says I’m just nosy. Fact is, we hafta know everything about everybody, can’t help it. We just wanna know. Being on the job we get to know what everybody’s up to, good and bad.

“Now, a good sheriff won’t ever tell what he knows about somebody to anybody else. He’ll just keep it in his mind, helps him decide when to hammer somebody down or just let something slide. Anybody knows me will tell you I don’t spread gossip. Oh, I might tell a thing or two, but I never hurt anybody with it. Bottom line, people trust me with things they won’t tell their minister even when they’re dying.

"You’re curious just like me. Sometimes I think you shoulda been a cop instead of a traveling salesman.

“You wanna know about Women Only Night and I’m inclined to tell you what I found out by asking questions here and there. When I had most of it figured out I asked Jackie. She told me enough to put it all together and now I owe her.

“If you ever let out what I told you, you better hope you see me before Jackie sees you. Keep in mind, mercy’s just a word to her. And trust means as much to her as it does to me.”

I promised not to repeat what he told me but I filed it away for some future date in some other town; someplace where nobody knew Tom or Jackie in a galaxy long ago and far, far away.

Jackie thought it would be nice to give the townswomen a place to get together away from their daily cares and tasks. She would serve coffee, tea, wine and cheese. So it was official.

Jackie announced that henceforth Tuesday night Happy Hour was cancelled at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. In its place, Jackie’s would host Women Only Night. 

Men had their clubs, bars, bull sessions at Les’s General Store or at the post office where they congregated whether or not they were expecting mail. But the women were mostly alone, seeing each other by one’s and two’s at the market or after church on Sundays. The Ladies’ Auxiliary met every Thursday in the basement of the church where the minister praised them endlessly, the holy women of his congregation; hovering over them like a shepherd and his sheep, keeping them in line. Now at Jackie's they could meet with no kids or men underfoot. They could talk about anything at all.

Some of the men weren’t happy about the end of Happy Hour or the prospect of Women Only Night. They feared that the women would probably take the occasion to speak plainly about them, and they were right about that except that they greatly overestimated how much of the evenings’ talk would actually be about them. Women had other things on their minds besides the men in their lives.

  

Jackie was disappointed but not surprised when only three of her friends came to the first Women Only Night. She never expected the church ladies to show up at a bar for goodness’ sake, but still. In the following weeks the attendees grew to six, then seven and eventually twelve women became regulars. Becky and two other churchwomen showed up, apparently prepared to pass judgment on the other women. Jackie welcomed them anyway.

At the sixth meeting the women talked about the kids or some everyday things like before but little by little they relaxed and sipped more wine than tea. Then one of the women literally let her hair down. She loosened the bun that pulled her skin tight against her skull and her hair cascaded over her shoulders.

It was an epiphany. Everyone gaped at the transformation. No one had ever seen her hair any other way except in a bun atop her head. Then another woman unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, releasing the tight collar on her neck. She ran her hands furiously through her hair, grabbed her wine glass and downed it one luxurious swallow.

Jackie laughed at the two rebels and offered more wine. The other women raised their glasses for refills. Cheers all around.

Becky, the leading church lady and her companions sat wide eyed, hands clutching the edge of the table, looking like they were going to stroke out. Then Becky passed gas – long and loud -- the laughing stopped abruptly. Everyone stared at her.

Becky, whose piety and correctness had never faltered, who had never been known for anything but prim propriety, said the only thing that came to her mind at that instant, something her grandmother said to her when she was just a little girl.

“That was an upside down hiccup.” A tiny pause then she burst out laughing.

The gossip about that sixth meeting spread among the women of the town like a grass fire and the membership soon grew to more than thirty women. The men groused among themselves but there was nothing they could do about it. They still thought the women were talking about them, probably making comparisons.

By now the group was too large to hold at one table so they broke up into several small groups, some women moving from one group to another until they found a table where the talk interested them. They scratched where they itched, kicked off their shoes; some loosened their bra straps, told dirty jokes, talked about truth and justice; a book they read, beauty tips, dreams both pending or broken.

What they’d done was break out of the roles that their gender and history created for them from birth. One day a week they weren’t anybody’s wife, girlfriend, or mother. They were just themselves, whoever they were. It was heaven.

The novelty of their freedom didn’t wear off in the subsequent weeks but once they’d blown off much of the steam they’d held in for years, they became more unified. They formed voting blocs to cancel out their husbands’ votes when they agreed a political issue was better to pass or fail for the greater good. They set up teams of volunteers to visit shut-ins, give them company, cook some meals, make them feel wanted. They discussed problems common to many of them, the means to solve them or simply to commiserate if no solution was available. They told jokes and recounted ancestral stories real and fictional.

One evening Becky and the other church ladies were talking about the Bible. No one joked about religion. It wasn’t a hot topic anyway. There is a time for prayers and meditation. Women Only Night isn’t one of those times. However, the question Becky asked made the women think in imaginative ways.

Becky taught Sunday School, had for years. Though she had read and studied the Bible, discussed it with the minister for hours on end, she was stumped for an answer when one her students, a little boy, wanted to know where Caine and Abel got their wives.

Fortunately, the bell for services rang before Becky answered her inquisitor. She was literally saved by the bell. The question bothered her and she was loath to tell the child that the brothers had married their sisters. The child was just six, for heaven’s sake, and the thought of marrying his sister would make him retch. The minister left town to visit the bishop before she could consult with him so she put the question to the women at the next Women Only Night.

Well, anybody who’s read Genesis and thought about it for five minutes can conclude that Adam and Eve had more kids, including daughters who are rarely mentioned or named in Bible stories. Adam and Eve lived for 930 years, lots of time for making babies. Logically, the brothers must have had to marry their sisters in order to bring about the human race.

Some of the women became thoughtful. They’d never considered where Caine and Abel’s wives came from. They’d read the Bible but didn’t think another step past the words, like some people roll through a stop sign never thinking what it means.

No, not this Caine

After some back and forth Becky decided to wait for the minister’s return for an answer that wouldn’t frighten the children.

But the question wouldn’t go away just like that.

Jackie said maybe there was more than one Garden of Eden, you know, East Eden, West Eden, North, South, each with its own Adam and Eve. Each producing children after they were tossed out of their respective gardens.

Actually, anything was possible, Jackie said. Could be there was a Garden of Eden in North America, another in Asia, one in Africa, Australia even.

A woman sitting at the next table wondered how do you account for different races if all the Edens were near each other?

The answer came from Table 7: Some newlyweds didn’t get along with each others families so they packed up their stuff and moved to Africa where over millennia, their skin got sunburned, each generation got darker and darker. Other couples moved to China where the sun was so bright that they had to squint. Over centuries the shape of their eyes changed.

All those notions sounded too far-fetched for the women at Table 3. After much talk and lots of wine, they judged that Jackie’s first idea was more practical. There were several gardens close enough to each other that the families could intermingle and marry. With four gardens the gene pool would be deep enough that genetic distortions would be minimal.

They proposed:

Adam and Eve in the East Garden

John and Helen in the West Garden

Brad and Angelina in the North Garden

Ken and Barbie in the South Garden

Table 1 drained and refilled their wine glasses and objected.

With all these weddings, they said, who planned the ceremonies and made the decorations? There had to be a Garden that had gays. They would pick the colors and themes, make seating arrangements, hire the caterers, design the wedding dresses, and book the honeymoon destinations.

Steve and Lance in the Hidden Garden, they said, couldn’t wait to get started.

The women cheered and toasted Table 3’s five Garden invention.

The women at Table 4 suggested the Handyman Garden featuring Larry, Darryl and Darryl. It was rejected (eeew). 

With the Caine and Abel question settled, the women went on to talk about next week’s meeting.

At 9:30 Jackie announced last call. She and Wendy began collecting the wine glasses, empty wine bottles and serving hot coffee. Closing time was 10:00 o’clock sharp.

The women touched up their hair, smoothed their dresses, slurped coffee, and prepared to go home. A few of them asked for a second cup.

Becky was among the last to leave. She helped Jackie clean up and said, “I just know that child is gonna ask me next why Caine killed Abel. I’ll just tell him what the Good Book says.”

As Jackie gently pushed her out the door she said, “Becky, careful now, you had a lot of wine tonight. Don’t tell that kid the real answer: God likes a good barbecue and He hates veggie burgers.”

Abel's OK

Caine, not so much

Friday Night Fights

We're gonna need a bigger horse, son.

A TV propped on a plank between two stepladders at the far side of the bar said it all… Jackie’s is giving in to the competition from the sports bars. There was a note stuck on the screen with masking tape. It was too far away to read so I got closer. The note said, “Nobody but Jackie turns it on. Violators will be required to settle their bar tab and go away until I say you can come back.”

Jackie came up from behind, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “That means you, too, city boy.”

This bar’s never had a TV or a jukebox. The regulars come here for a quiet place to have some drinks and conversation, or just to sit alone. Sheriff Tom is one of the regulars. Rowdies and troublemakers find out soon enough that quiet people can get rough if rough is what’s required to keep the peace. Nobody can remember the last time there was a fight at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn.

I come here to rest my mind after spending the day pitching farm equipment, trying to convince farmers to replace 40 year old machinery; or ranchers that they need to replace old-fashioned augers with new ones that dig post holes faster and with less chance of injury to their ranch hands.

When I say I pitch I mean I’m a major leaguer, throwing high fastballs and diving sliders one after another. My company says I’m a star salesman. Most of the time the farmers and ranchers are smart enough to figure out what’s coming and they hit homers off me more often than not. Even when they’re ready to buy they’ll make me keep pitching a while longer before they sign the dotted line. But I do well enough to make a living at it, plus I like driving all over the panhandle on deserted county roads to meet my customers. It feels like my minor league days going from town to town to play the local baseball teams. 

If my boss offered me twice the money to work at company headquarters I’d say no. I don’t know that I could stand it, sitting in an office, knowing the open road is out there without me. 

I got my drink at the bar and took a table near the door where Sheriff Tom, Les, and Doc Harris usually sit in the late afternoon.

No TV, no Jukebox, no whining

They turned up together and joined me. I asked if the TV was for a football game.

Les said, “Nope. Not football. Six o’clock press conference the governor is giving Johnny Summers a medal for winning the National Roping Tournament in Denver. He hasn’t lived here since he was 12 but he’s still one of ours more or less.”

Five minutes later Jackie turned the TV on, volume up high. The governor went on and on talking about everything except why he and Johnny Summers were there. An aide whispered something in his ear and the governor got down to the business of the day. He put a thick rope lanyard with a medal around Johnny’s neck and invited him to say a few words. Staring straight ahead, all the poor kid could manage was “Hi, Mom”. The governor slid in front of him and thanked everybody for being there and said goodnight.

I don’t know what else Jackie or the men in the bar were expecting. Maybe a fight? Or maybe the kid would hogtie the crooked governor, turn him over to the State Police. One or two of the patrons hooted and clapped when governor mentioned Johnny’s hometown, the rest went back to their conversations and drinks. Jackie turned the TV off.

Gary and Mike from the Conoco station, still in their greasy coveralls, were sitting at the bar telling Jackie some story about a fight they saw at Billy’s Last Stand. If I had to guess Jim and Angel were in it somehow but I was too far away to hear the details.

We watched Gary tell his story, punching the air with his hairy fist showing Jackie the hit that took a cowboy down. Jackie, head back, slapping her hands on the bar, laughing.

Gary finished his story and Jackie came to our table with fresh drinks and clean ashtrays.

Tom asked her who Gary was talking about.

“Jim and Angel”, she said.

Doc Harris pulled dollar bill from his shirt pocket and slid it into Les’s open palm.

At the far end of the bar Wendy was pouring coffee for a customer.

I pointed to the man and said, “Coffee?”

Les glanced over his shoulder and said, “Yeah, that’s Rollie. Been on the wagon off and on going on five years now.

“After he spent three days in the County Jail he made up his mind to stop drinking. Well, maybe not stop altogether but cut down some so that at least he could remember what happened the night before.

“The way I heard it, he’s doing all right first week or so, has three beers, then asks for coffee before heading home. Looking good except this particular night, Cindy, a waitress at the Itchy Kitty Topless Bar brings his coffee but all she’s got is Equal. He says, “Darlin’ this stuff gives me headaches. Can you get me some real sugar?” She goes back to the bar, comes back and says, no, this is all we got.

“He’s fighting the urge to say screw it, gimme me another beer. Instead he calls out to the bartender to get him some real sugar. Bartender shakes his head, no. That hits his last nerve so he makes a fuss over what kinda cheap ass place this is that don’t have real goddam U - S – A, All-American SUGAR.

“Mandy, she owns the place, was in the back room checking inventory, hears him hollering. She doesn’t need another ruckus that’ll bring the Sheriff. Just an hour before some jackleg got too familiar with one of the dancers. Tom here put him down with kick in the pants, sent him on his way. Anyway, Mandy, she goes over, stands behind Rollie and says real nice, ‘Cindy, is he getting fresh? Rollie, what do you want? ’

“He whips around, spreads his arms wide and says, “Mandy, all’s I want is a little sugar.”

“Mandy’s been in the business 30 years or more. It’s late, she’s tired, wants to go home. Randy cowboys are nothing new at the Itchy Kitty. She’s a big woman, 250 at least, hands big as fry pans. She slaps him upside his head, sits him down, tells him to stay, tells Cindy put a shirt on and bring back some menudo from the Mexican place three doors down.”

“Ah, menudo,” said Doc Harris. “The breakfast of people who oughta know better.”

Everybody, even the Sheriff, looked at Doc Harris. Menudo? Breakfast of what?

Doc leaned back in his chair, a sure sign he had a story. He took his time, slow sipping his bourbon.

“Long time ago, when Jorge was new in town I saw him come stumbling out of Chato’s late one night. Looked to me like Tom or Deputy Dudley would put him in the tank overnight if they saw him. I figured I’d save the Sheriff some paperwork and Jorge some embarrassment so I said I’d take him home but he said take me to Rosario’s Diner first.

“He said, ‘Amigo, the best way to fix a hangover or get sober is eat a big bowl of menudo at Rosario’s Diner.’ I asked what’s in it, he says, ‘Hominy, tripe, some other stuff. It’s not something you like right away especially if you’re in the kitchen while mamacita’s making it.

‘First she boils two pounds of chopped tripe in a big pot. It smells like road kill been sitting in the sun for a day. Once it’s cooked enough she adds her mother’s chili mix. Rosario says she uses four kinds of peppers. After that she adds some soup bones, salt, garlic cloves, and fills the pot with hominy. She lets it boil for a while, then sets it to simmer on the stove.

Four kinds of peppers and other spices Rosario will never reveal 

‘It doesn’t smell like road kill anymore and I can’t tell you what it smells like because I don’t care. I want some now. Serve it in a big bowl, add some chopped onions and oregano flakes, a hard roll on the side. Before you know it your sinuses are so clear you can breathe through your ears, you can focus with both eyes at the same time; your headache is going away. Downside is your mouth and throat’s burning up and you can’t stop eating.’”

The first bowl is only $1.75

“I got Jorge home safe and sound. Me being a doctor and all I gotta keep up with advances in medicine. If I can find some way to make menudo pills I’ll be rich. Might have to marry Rosario to get the recipe. Problem is, what to do about her husband, fittest man in the county, probly live to a hundred.”

Tom said, “Menudo. Maybe I’ll have Rosario fix me a batch to have at the jail on weekends. The closing time cowboy roundup usually means three, four of ‘em be seeing me or my Deputy come Sunday morning.”

Mike and Gary finished their drinks, paid Jackie. As they passed by on their way out, Les asked Mike what they said to Jackie to make her laugh.

Mike said, “Happened Friday two weeks ago at Billy’s. This guy, Donny, new guy on the road crew, starts ragging another guy just because. He likes to talk tough, start fights but only if there’s somebody there to stop ‘em before it comes to blows. The guy ignores him but Donny won’t let it go, starts getting personal. What he don’t know is the guy he’s ragging is Jim. His friends don’t know it’s Jim either. They don’t know his wife, Angel’s standing next to him.

“Now, all ah you know Jim never throws the first punch. If you wanna fight ‘im you better square up tight and don’t look at his face too long. More’n one cowboy’s backed off when Jim gets that killer look in his eyes. If anything, they oughta look out for Angel. She don’t wait for the first punch. First sign of intent, she’s attacking with everything she’s got. Man, woman, tall, short, don’t matter to her. Most times it’s Jim gotta pull her off.

“I tried to warn Donny but he laughed saying Jim was scared to fight ‘cause his old lady would cut him off if he went home all beat to hell. His buddies laughed and hooted, having fun.”

“Jim don’t say nothin’, looks around the bar, waves at some guys at the pool table in the back.

“Angel, she turns around facing the guy and says, ‘Cowboy, you got a wife or a girlfriend? What’s your girlfriend gonna say if you tell her you got beat up by girl?’

“Donny don’t even look her way, he says, ‘Baby, this ain’t your fight. Leave it to the men.’

“Jim says, ‘Angel, let it be.’ He turns his back and Donny looks around, showing off to his friends, makes like he’s gonna throw a punch. Quick as a cat, Angel gives him a knee in the crotch. He goes into a crouch grabbing the family jewels with both hands and she finishes him off with an overhand cross. BAM! Like this. Coupla Donny’s friends start to make a move but Jim looks them off, puts some money on the bar, takes Angel’s arm and they go home.”

No, not these family jewels

Tom said, “Wonder of wonders, the Deputy’s report said everybody in the bar was deaf and blind that night.”

Gary and Mike left. Nobody said anything for a while, probably filing the story away for retelling some other day. Tom puffed on his Cheroot. Les and Doc stirred their drinks with their fingers.

I said, “Why is it there’s so much talk about fights, even fights that happened a long time ago?”

They were quiet for moment, thinking. Tom was the first to speak.

“I think it's football”, he said. “You’ve been around these parts and you know how folks live and die by their team. Boys start young, peewee leagues, up through high school. They’re buttin’ heads and bodies against each other year after year then graduation and just like that it’s over.

Once you graduate, it's over

And I say unto you ... Touchdown!

“Early training like that don’t go away. Young fellas, years out of school, still feel that urge to hit somebody different from them, start fights for no good reason. Then the day comes when the bruises don’t heal so fast, or they see double too many days after. The blood cools, gets up to their brains and they think maybe fighting’s a waste of time and body. The boys become men. Look around, no boys in this bar.”

Tom stubbed out his Cheroot and leaned back.

In a low voice Les said, “You know folks here don’t have a lotta money for entertainment. Most days are boring from sunrise to sunset. Nighttime’s no better. Every day is near the same. Same cattle, cotton, rain, no rain, same troubles every day one after the other. Everybody’s day is the same as everybody else’s. Nothing happens that hasn’t happened the same way a thousand times before.

“Fights get the blood up, a few drinks on top of that and the fights get better and better every time you tell it. People listening eat it up. A two-minute fight can take 20 to tell if you do it right. And no two fights are the same. If two, three other people seen it, they’ll tell different sides of a story. Kinda like instant replay with lotsa camera angles.

“Think a minute. Nobody has cars or trucks worth a damn, besides we need them for work. Can’t race them, and truck pulls, mud rallies probly turn up bad trannies, stripped gears or worse. Can’t risk it. Talking fights beats sitting around watching TV preachers promising to save me from burnin’ in a ‘Lake of Fire’ for eternity if I give ‘em my money. Hell, I had a secret way to heaven I give it away for free.”

Doc chuckled and said, “And if you’re thinking about stepping out on your wife or girlfriend for something to do, well, don’t even try it. I’m not saying there’s not some cheating going on here and there but keeping it quiet only lasts a minute or two. Hang around Maggie over at the post office. Don’t know how she does it but she’ll know if you’re cheating even if you’re only thinking about it.

“Good news or bad, gossip travels fast. Truck breaks down, the news gets to town before you do. Swear to god, one time my truck quit on the 221 about 35 miles out. I hitched a ride with a tourist passing through. I get out of his car, go to the post office, Maggie hands me my mail, says, ‘I heard you left your truck on the 221.’”

A one minute story

The way he grinned I couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth or lying.

Tom stood up, ready to leave. He put some bills on the table and said, “The next round’s on me.”

He looked at me and said, “Son, a truck breaking down ain’t much of a story, happens to somebody every day. Doc just told you the whole thing in two, three sentences, less than a minute. A good fight story, nobody knows how it starts or how it’s gonna turn out ‘til it’s over. Now which stories do you wanna hear?”

He put on his hat, nodded towards Jackie at the bar and went out the door.

The Last Tumbleweed in Texas

Every cowboy movie has one

The Lazy Bones Motel was three blocks down and one block over from Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. I checked in and made an executive decision that even though it was only 3 o’clock, it was time for a cold beer or my usual Jack & Coke. A big flatbed lost its load of alfalfa on the 87 a half mile outside Amarillo forcing me to make a 60 mile detour. By the time I arrived at Panhandle I was done for the day. Amarillo could wait.

I saw Les at the cash register as I passed his General Store. He waved, made a drinking motion with his hand and pointed at the clock on the wall. Either he was saying it was too early to drink or that he’d join me after when he closed up at five. I waved and pointed in the direction of Jackie’s place.

And the 22 miles after that

The bar was empty, except for Jackie and Wendy who was sweeping out the storeroom and stacking the empties. I took a seat in the corner next to the window facing the street. Jackie said hi and gave me a look --- beer or Jack? I said one each.

I saw Sheriff Tom coming out of the post office holding some letters in one hand and his hat in the other. He dropped the mail in his cruiser except for one letter and made his way to Jackie’s.

He called to Jackie when he came in and sat down with me. I complained about the detour. Yeah, he heard about it, road’s still jammed up probly for another couple of hours.

Patting his breast pocket he said, “Jackie, I got a letter here in my pocket from somebody in El Paso. You ever hear anybody named Luís Ordaz?”

“Can’t say I have. What’s he say?”

“I haven’t read it yet. Here goes.”

He opened the envelope. It was one page.

“Damn it! It says here he’s Charlie García’s neighbor. Charlie died on the tenth and they’re holding up the funeral until they hear from me. They found out about me from papers found in his house. Funeral home, address, phone number, call Kaster & Maxon to confirm arrival. And that’s it.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped. He shielded his eyes with his hand and said, “I gotta go to El Paso. Charlie was an old friend. Les, Charlie, and me did a lotta growing up together.” He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

Jackie brought Tom a shot of bourbon and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Tom. All I heard about him was the trouble you three were into all the time.”

Tom stood and said, “I gotta tell Les. Be back in a minute.” He came back a few minutes later and said Les was real upset about Charlie but couldn’t travel. His wife was having a bad time with chemo.

It seemed to me that Tom would need some company so I made up a story about going to El Paso to see a new line of small tractors. It wasn’t much of a lie but that’s all I could think of.

I said let’s go in my car the next day; spell each other at the wheel, make the eight hour trip and arrive in El Paso before nightfall if we left by noon, bunk at my hotel on my company’s dime. He gave me that look cops give when they know you’re lying, but he didn’t say no to my offer.

We decided to leave before sunrise, me driving the first leg from Panhandle to Seminole. Tom put his bags and gun in the trunk and a cigar box between us on the front seat. I hoped he wouldn’t light up.

It breathes so you don't have to

He started talking as soon as we cleared the city limits -- unusual for Tom. He usually waits for you to talk so he doesn’t have to talk about himself.

“Charlie and I go back a long ways. Les, Charlie, and me grew up in the same neighborhood since we were kids, same schools, teachers, right through high school. We were more or less best buds unless grownups were around. Him being a migrant family’s kid, it wasn’t smart to treat him equal. I loved my momma and my daddy but now I’m old and still don’t understand what made their hearts so hard. Gotta give Charlie credit, he knew his place and pretended it was ok when he had to.

“We got our draft notices a year after we registered with the draft board and found out right away the military mind works in mysterious ways. They sent Les to Fulda, Germany, Charlie to Fort Greeley, Alaska, got bad frostbite; me, I wound up in forward bases north of Saigon.”

He was quiet for a while then said, “My daddy was the Sheriff ‘til he retired. Folks elected me probly so they wouldn’t have to change the name on the office door. He was Sheriff so long nobody could remember who came before. After me, probly Deputy Dudley. He’s a smart cop, been a good one to have around. I’m thinking of retiring early, before the elections so he’s already sitting in my chair when it’s time to vote.”

I asked about Les.

“I wish he was coming with us. I remember times Les took the blame for stuff Charlie did; took the punishment because Charlie would be punished worse than him. Same crime, different perp, go figure. He’s a good friend, sticks with you no matter what. Charlie can back me up on that. Well, not anymore he can’t but it’s still true.

“Some people think Les ain’t too bright because he don’t talk much but I’ll tell you what, if you wanna be on the losing side of an argument, don’t matter which side, bet against him. He coulda been a lawyer. He opened his store after he talked the bank into lending him $500. I mean, the kid was 17 years old. Who lends that kind of money to a teenager? Especially one that hung around with the likes of me and Charlie. If my daddy wasn’t the Sheriff, no telling how we woulda turned out.”

  

We stopped at Seminole, gassed the car and switched drivers. Next stop, Carlsbad.

Tom didn’t say anything for the next hour. Finally, I said, “What about Charlie?”

“Oh, Charlie’s an old friend I haven’t seen since we were young and fit. That’s all.”

We went on to Carlsbad, had some homemade chili at a little diner, gassed the car. We could see the Guadalupe Mountains and El Capitán as we drove into White’s City.

Mind the crosswinds on the way down the other side

We switched drivers again and Tom stirred around in the seat, stared out the side window for a long time. He made up his mind about something, turned to me and said, “I loved him like a brother. After ‘Nam, Charlie stuck around for a couple of years, fell in love with a girl who had to make up her mind between him and another guy. When she did, Charlie was out. I never saw a man go so deep into himself and I saw plenty of that in the war. He thought, and I did, too, that she’d pick Charlie. You see them two you’d think love and caring was invented just for them. I was as heartbroke as him.

“A few months later he said he was leaving for Galveston, work on the docks, maybe join the Merchant Marine, see the world. I figured he was just talking to say something but he left like he said. And like everybody who’s ever left friends behind he said he’d write. I said sure, not believing it. But he did write, kinda. Every few months I got a postcard from somewhere he’d been. Never said what he was doing, only where he was, what he saw. The postcards stopped coming ten, eleven years ago.”

Patting the cigar box, he said, “This box has all the postcards he sent. Now he’s dead and I won’t know anymore about him than I do now…” He slammed his fist on the dashboard. “Shit.”

As we crested Guadalupe Pass we saw El Paso and Juárez sprawled across the desert all the way to the horizon.

We checked into a Holiday Inn then went to the funeral home to see Charlie. The receptionist gave Tom a note. It said, “Tom, I’m at the Kentucky Bar across the border. Meet me as soon as you get this note. Also, I promised the nice lady $10 to give you the note. Give it to her for me, Charlie”

“Sonofabitch. What the hell is the Kentucky Bar and why tell me he’s dead? I’ll kill the sonofabitch.”

We left the car at the funeral home and took a taxi to the border. On the way I told Tom about when I was a teenager growing up in El Paso I’d go to the Kentucky Bar for cheap drinks and to listen to musicians bang away on a creaky six-man marimba. I could tell he wasn’t listening but I kept talking anyway hoping he’d get mad at me for chattering and get his mind off murdering Charlie.

The Kentucky Bar in Juárez was at the same location but twice the size and sterilized top to bottom. The seedy dive I remembered from my youth was gone, replaced by a fern bar as inviting as a walk-in freezer.

How I remember it

I love what you've done. It has that certain nothing.

It was mid-afternoon so there was nobody there except for the bartender and a waiter who idly waved us in, evidently sensing we were bad tippers.

Charlie sat with his back to the wall so he could see anybody coming in. He called out “Tom, over here”, waving his Stetson. His table was littered with empty bottles of beer and tequila.

Tom slammed the cigar box on the table and swatted Charlie back and forth with his hat. He was sorely pissed. Charlie covered his head with his arms, laughing.

In between swats he managed to say, “Tom, how does a Mexican become a Spaniard? He works hard and makes lots and lots of money.”

Swat. “So, are you a Spaniard now?” Swat.

“Halfway there, my friend. I might make it to full on Spaniard but my wife says I’m half crazy so maybe half and half is all I can do.” Still laughing he said, “Sit down or I’ll take away your hat.”

“Joven” he called to the waiter, “más tequilia, birria y limón para mis compañeros, por favor.”

Tom plopped down on his chair. “How did you know I was coming today?”

“I asked the nice lady to call me at home when you picked up my note. I’ve only been here 15 minutes. I paid the waiter a dollar to put the empty bottles on the table. He thinks I’m crazy. Did you give lady the $10?”

Pointing at me, “Who’s he?”

“This is a friend of mine who’s never once told me he’s dead. What the hell, Charlie.”

“Hey, it was a joke. I didn’t think you’d come but I took a chance and here you are. Here we are. How’ve you been, Tom? You look a lot older than me. What’s it been now, 30, 40 years?”

“Goddamit, Charlie. All the way down here I was thinking about how we wouldn’t sit around and bullshit like we used to, talk about women, horses, or whatever. Now all I got in mind is to kick your ass back across the border.”

“Tom, this isn’t Texas.” Stretching his arms wider with each syllable he said, “Es Méx-i-co. Your badge might get you in trouble. Juarez cops and El Paso cops, they’re not best friends. Hey, man, I’m sorry. If I knew you missed me so much I would have sent flowers on your birthday or chocolates.”

Swat.

“Ok, ok. It was a bad joke. Really, I’m sorry.”

The waiter brought tequila shots, beer chasers, and small plate of lime slices. He cleared the empties and gave Charlie a little smile. We had another round before Tom cooled down enough to stop glaring at Charlie.

He patted Tom’s hand and said, “It’s good to see you, Tom. What’s happened to everybody we knew in Panhandle? Les? Doc Harris, Mary Ann, Cindy, did the Hammond brothers make it back from ‘Nam?”

Between sips of beer and tequila shots Tom told him about everyone Charlie remembered. When he finished they relaxed, settled into their chairs, thinking. Thinking what? I felt like a third wheel, eavesdropping on a reunion of old friends. I got up and went to the bar to pay the tab, intending to leave, but Charlie wouldn’t have it.

“Amigo, don’t you want to hear my rags to rags story? I’ve been rehearsing it for years. It didn’t work with women but it’s not a bad story. Come on, sit down, have another drink with us.” Both men waved me back.

“Before I tell my story. Tell me who you are, what you do?”

Compared to other people’s lives, mine wasn’t that interesting but Charlie asked questions that made me feel that I wasn’t as ordinary as I thought. When I was done, I said, “So, Charlie, what’s the story that doesn’t work on women but not a bad story?”

He took a long swallow of beer, rested his arms on the table and looked off at some point above and behind me for a moment.

“Before that cabrón Columbus ‘discovered’ us, my family was already here for hundreds of years. We came to the U.S. side in the 30’s.Things were bad in the U.S. back then but they were worse in Mexico, you have no idea.

“Tom, you never noticed that I didn’t have any uncles, aunts, or cousins. Well, neither did any of the other Mexican families. Not by blood but by necessity, every woman was our aunt, every man was our uncle, every kid was our cousin. We were like a pile of tumbleweeds in the corner of a barbwire fence, pushed together by the wind.

“When I left home my father give me a little notebook with the names of his and mom’s brothers and sisters, their kids’ names. All these years I never found anybody in the notebook. I was lonely. It was like I was the last tumbleweed in Texas.

“Been everywhere in the country wherever there’s work I can do, mostly construction work where there’s a lot of Latinos. All the time I was looking for people who might know the names in my father’s notebook. You know, after work you sit around having beers with the guys and it’s always the same at the beginning. Somebody says, ‘So, Paco, where are you from?’ And Paco will say ‘Sinaloa’ or ‘Durango’. Pretty soon they say, ‘Do you know fulano or sotano de tal, that means ‘so-and-so’. And it goes like that back and forth. Sometimes the guys have people in common back in Mexico and it’s like finding a brother even if you just met the guy a few days ago. I was never that lucky.

“I met a lot of good people but I moved around so much there was no way to stay close... I fell in love with two women, one in Arizona, another in Tulsa but they didn’t love me back.

“Twelve years ago I heard there was a lot of work in El Paso restoring historic buildings. They offered top dollar for stonemasons, English speaking a plus. I was good on both counts. Been here ever since.”

My tequila brain stirred. I heard myself say, “So the lonely guy routine didn’t work on the women?”

“No, it didn’t except the one time it counted. Margarita.”

“No thanks, I’ll stay with beer.”

Tom didn’t say anything out loud but in my head I heard him say, “Jeez, try to keep up, Dumbass.”

Charlie flicked a slice of lime at me and said, “I married Margarita, a widow with two teenage sons. Her brother, a carpenter I worked with, invited me to his house for a birthday party. He didn’t say he was setting me up with his sister. He told her I was rich but when she saw me she laughed. She said, ‘Luis! You told me he was rich. Look at his hands!’ Working with rocks, my fingernails were chipped and broken; calluses on my palms. She was nice to me anyway and apologized for laughing. We had a nice time at the party talking about books and then we said goodbye.

“Luís invited me to his house again a few days later. I said I would go if his sister was gonna be there. He smiled and said she wouldn’t come unless I was coming, too. Long story short, Margarita and I been married eleven years. Her two boys and I fought but I expected that. Their father was quite a man and me replacing him was a hard sell but it happened eventually. They call me Papá now.”

Tom pushed the cigar box toward Charlie. He opened it, surprised to see his postcards. He picked one up, studied the picture and read the back.

“The horse farm in Kansas City.” Pointing to the horse on the front, “This is a Paso Fino, the finest riding horse in the world, the Cadillac of trail horses. My job was to ride the owner’s six horses every day, keep ‘em exercised, brush their coats. Best job ever, riding fine, fine horses through the woods and hills and getting paid for it. Had to clean the stables though, six horses make a lot of shit.”

Leather seat, power steering

He flipped through some more cards, let out a laugh over a postcard of a wooden bridge in Colorado.

“Boulder, Colorado, there was this three chair barber shop. One of the barbers was a nice looking woman and guys were always hitting on her. Man, she was like Wonder Woman bouncing their come on’s away with her magic bracelets, a real artist. When it was my turn in the chair I asked her what her name was. She said, ‘Barbara Seville’. I laughed so hard I fell out the chair. I got even, told her my favorite Spanish composer was El Beethoven. She had a nice laugh.”

Another card. “Conch Republic, Key West. I almost got elected mayor, lost to Jimmy Buffet by 326 votes. I demanded a recount and lost by 413. Worked on deep-sea fishing boats, first mate. All that meant was that I did all the work while the captain got drunk with his customers. Sometimes they actually fished. But the tips were good, made a lot of friends there.”

I picked up one of the postcards. This one from Houston had a picture of the city skyline. Charlie took it from me, looked at Tom and said, “I saw her there. She asked about you.”

With too much tequila buzz to mind my own business, I blurted, “Who’s her?” before my memory reminded me that “her” was the girl Charlie had lost to the other guy in Panhandle many, many years before. I really shouldn’t drink tequila.

Charlie didn’t react like I thought he would. He put his arms over his head, stretched, and said, “Yeah, when she picked what-his-name instead of me, it messed me up. Until I met Margarita I never met another woman like her. For a long time I went through a hundred ‘what ifs’ but one day it came to me that I was only thinking about myself. If she was happy with him then I should be happy for her. Isn’t that what love is? It still hurt but not so bad.

“I saw her ten years later in a shopping mall in Houston. She called my name and I froze when I saw her walking towards me. In my mind I saw us hugging, going off together, leaving our lives behind. Together again, starting over.

“What actually happened, she put her hands on my chest and kissed my cheek. We had coffee at a kiosk and talked about our lives for about an hour before she had to leave to pick up her kids from school. The way she smiled when she said, ‘my kids’, I could tell she was happy, no regrets. I watched her walk away and the last of my ‘what ifs’ went away.”

He put the card back in the box and picked up another one.

He had a few more postcard stories. Tom spoke about life in Panhandle, some tales about Jim and Angel, his favorite miscreants. Said Charlie should come visit, have a reunion at Jackie’s with Les and Doc Harris and the others, “Before we're all dead for real, you sonabitch.”

Charlie said, “Maybe next Spring. Right now we’re building a rock house out on three acres near the river in the Upper Valley. Teaching my sons all I know, work with their hands and their brains at the same time.”

Cool in the summer, warm in the winter

Tom started to say something but Charlie interrupted.

“I think it’s better if you come here for the housewarming, Tom.

“I spent most of my life looking for my roots. I felt like a tumbleweed going wherever the wind took me. Most people don’t know that tumbleweeds aren’t native to this country. They’re Russian Thistle, got here in the 1800’s from Asia. Western movies, TV shows, they all have tumbleweeds blowing in the wind. Maybe they're looking for their home like I was.

“I’m not a tumbleweed anymore. I’m a hundred year old Mesquite. My roots go all the way to the center of the earth.”