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Double Indemnity

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As it happens sometimes in my narrow life, a friend started me to think. It was when she spoke of her wedding, her husband in his rented tux, and she in her linen suit with dyed to match heels, setting off on their road of life together many years ago…and some of the rocks that litter that very road. It brought to mind weddings, two of them to be exact, both of them mine.

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Bud Miller was born to lead. With 20 years service in the military, including the Korean War, when ex-Sergeant Miller retired and came home to our small town, he just couldn’t wait to get back in charge of something…and the Fire Department caught his eye. Our little volunteer fire department was housed in a rundown brick garage just off the small uptown business district. One ancient pumper truck constituted the entire fleet of firefighting vehicles and, three or four times a year the town whistle would sound, phones in the volunteer’s homes would bellow a continuous steady ring, and 8 or 10 stalwarts would get to legally drive like maniacs to the fire house and launch the wheezing fire truck to go put out a garbage fire or a blazing tool shed. Once a week the volunteer firefighters would hold an evening meeting at the firehouse to discuss business for a few hours. The rumor mill claimed the meeting consisted mostly of beer, cards, and the occasional “stag film,” but nobody ever got out of hand. So it was, so it had always been, until Bud Miller declared his candidacy for the exalted office of Fire Chief.

Planting the Seed

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“Got a minute?” he asked.

I’d seen him around the area for the past few days. He was busy, landscaping mostly, installing water features, planting trees. He was a hard worker and so old  I couldn’t even guess at his age. It didn’t seem to affect him. He labored like a young man, full of energy, vital. He stretched his back out and walked over.

“If you’re not busy, I got a job for you,” he continued, wincing a bit as he worked out some kinks. “It won’t take very long. I – I just need a little help to get some things started around here and I think you’d be perfect.”

His eyes seemed to look through me. Lying to this guy would be damned near impossible. I squirmed a little when he looked right at me, but his face was so kind it took the sting out of his gaze, and his voice was warm and rich.  It felt sorta like a blanket, ya know? I glanced around.

“Great job you’ve done to this place,” I said. “Really beautiful.”

“Well, thanks,” he smiled. “This garden is the showplace of the whole project. It turned out even better than the sketches. There’s a lot more you can’t see from here, miles and miles, but this here’s the highpoint.”

“Well, you do great work,” I said and smiled. “It seems like a lot of effort, though, for a man your age.”

He chuckled, “Oh, I’ve been around a while, no doubt about that. I think it’s important to stay busy if you wanna stay young. Every now and then I get this creative urge and the years just slip away. Next thing you know, I’m back at it, working my tail off. I don’t know. I need it, I guess.”

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Joggers and runners annoy me. Before my lovely bride Laura ventured off for several years occupying Afghanistan, allowing me to become a gentleman of leisure and relocate to my scenic country estate, we lived in an apartment in the city. While there, we acquired a canine, an Australian Cattle Dog, or Blue Heeler, to be exact. Heelers are athletic dogs and Digger, the dog in question, was no exception. He required several walks a day for exercise. On those walks, we often encountered The Jogger.

An Arresting Development

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When I first met Billy O’Neal I was just 21 years old, a rookie cop with less than one month on the street, full of high hopes and lofty aspirations, as yet untarnished by the darker realities of my job. One fine June afternoon, I rode with another officer to the city garage to pick up a repaired squad car and return it to the cop shop. The Lt. who dispatched me on the errand probably assumed that even a rookie such as I could carry out the task without incident. Silly he. The 10 block drive should have been simple. Neither one of us counted on Billy O’Neal.

Passing the Torch

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[editor's note:  This bit was originally done for the subjects a couple of years ago, but it was thought it would be a worthwhile addition to this site.  As such, it does not follow the same format as the other bits herein (the music is different and goes throughout the bit).  It is noted here so listeners don't wonder why it sounds different from the other bits.]

Roger and Sharon Sigler have lived in a rural portion of the Kansas City area for nearly three decades and, for many of those years, their across the road neighbors have been Gwen and Bob Wright. Gwen and Bob keep dogs, Great Pyrenees to be exact. Great Pyrenees are large white animals, similar in construction to Newfoundlands, and many of them weigh as much as an NFL punt return specialist.  Their bark is a cross between a lion’s cough and a damaged steam whistle, their jowls are pendulous, and one running in your general direction is reminiscent of an approaching avalanche. Subtlety is not a part of their make-up. The Great Pyrenees is an obvious dog, bred to control and protect livestock and property, and recognizes his calling nearly from birth. Like most dogs, a Great Pyrenees may sometimes not take himself too seriously, but he seldom has to be reminded of his duty.

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Ah, yes – the holiday season.  Most retailers and some consumers believe it starts in mid-September and continues through January 15. We are besieged by The Great Pumpkin, regaled with stories of The Pilgrims, who were, incidentally, not THE pilgrims but only pilgrims, beaten over the head by the Jolly Old Elf in such a perverted evolution of greed that the real Saint Nicholas is a lathe in his grave, and ushered into an uncertain future by and old man carrying a scythe eager to be reduced to an infant in diapers.  Bitter?  Not me.  I think the whole thing is a hoot.  It is the time of year when the overriding constant throughout the season of celebration was only recently released from prison.  Yes, Virginia, there is a Martha Stewart.

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Christmas Eve.  From the time I was a young child until my late twenties, I spent it at my favorite Aunt and Uncle’s farm.  My Aunt Myrna and Uncle Wayne, their son Gayle and his family, my grandparents, my mother and stepfather, me, and in later times, my wife, all gathered every year.  Entering from the cold into that farmhouse reinforced the fact that there is no scent on Earth like a home on the eve of Christmas where country women are cooking holiday dinner.  The tang of sage, the odor of baking sweet potatoes, the light dusting of flour on the countertop where homemade noodles and handmade rolls were just created combines with the warmth and humidity of a farmhouse kitchen to manifest a palpable texture in the room.  A pungent blanket of airborne taste that smacks of Currier and Ives, Norman Rockwell, and home.  It cannot be duplicated in a restaurant, or even in a city for that matter.  It requires cold, country, and family tradition.

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About 10 years ago, for the first time in quite a while, I went home for Christmas.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  Home is where my wife and I live.  I returned to where I spent my childhood, where I walked the river, hunted pheasants, stalked the elusive catfish, sledded on snow, skated on ice, horsed around with my friends, and spent time with my grandfather.  At the time, I had not lived in that area for over 25 years, and I found the memories of it more pleasing from a distance than recalled at close range.  Still, I went.

Love’s Illusions I Recall

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She was a vision. Petite, with dark brown hair in a pageboy cut. Her gentle rippling laugh flitted on the wind like a butterfly, its fragile wings caressing all who heard it with tender purpose. Arching brows highlighted dark eyes that could delight or accuse in the same glance; eyes that both revealed and concealed, darted and laughed, asking for nothing and full of unspoken promise. She wore no makeup, and it would have been as laughable on her as watercolor on the Mona Lisa. Her dress was simple cotton, ordinary in every way, totally without pretension. She was a new addition to my usual haunts and, from the instant I saw her, I was captivated.

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Some of the individuals who know me would tell you that Ol’ Lewis has yet to enter the 1990’s. Not true. I have recently plunged into the 2000’s. My bride and I, because we live in a very remote area have recently given up landlines entirely, and now have opted for cell phones only, and acquire our internet access with one of those little blinky thingies that is connected to my computer by one cable, and to another thingie that is suctioned-cupped to my window with yet another cable. The term “broadband” was used. I suspect it did not mean an all-girl musical organization. At any rate, modern is me.

Hoofbeats In The Fog

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It was damp, it was foggy, it was chilly, it was perfect. My wife and I crunched our way across the gravel parking lot of the Jock’s kitchen heading for the racetrack. It was barely dawn and we’d just had breakfast with LaVette Drummond, a forty-year-old Louisianan, who looked sixty and trained racehorses. We were at a track just outside St. Louis. Sitting in the dining area of the Jock’s kitchen had been a trip back to the 1940’s. The room was festooned with chrome plated, steel topped tables, metal chairs with cracked plastic seats, linoleum peeling from the floor, a black cat clock rolling his eyes and swinging his tail by the second, and amazingly low prices for bacon and eggs swimming in grease.

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Once upon a time I lived in Almost Arkansas, Missouri. In spite of how bizarre some southern Missouri towns are named, you will not find Almost Arkansas on any map, but it is there.  I’ve seen it.  Unlike the mythical “Lake Woebegon”, Almost Arkansas exists.  Sid, a German shepherd who brought home his own dog food and had a pigeon friend, lived there, as did Arlo and Mertie, an ill-fated veterinarian named Delmar Dawe, and many other people firmly lodged in my failing memory.  Cloud, a horse who saved my life, was a resident, and it is where I used to cowboy and beat the sun to the top of the hill on horseback every morning.  It is real.  It is not named Almost Arkansas, but it is Almost Arkansas, as are several other small towns in that area…