November / December 2019
I
was returning late from the farm after a satisfying day’s labor putting purlins
on my soon to be completed pole barn. I
called Judy, and she said, “Get something to eat on your way home, I’m
done.” So, I stopped at Freddy’s at Roe
and I-435 to dine.
I’m
not a particularly judgmental person, but I espied a couple walking into the
restaurant ahead of me, and the man caught my eye, and not in a good way. He was wearing an all-black outfit. He had a leather cowboy style hat, ala
Indiana Jones, with a metal hat band featuring silver colored spikes spaced
about two inches apart. He had long
blond hair that reached almost to his belt line, and he sported tight jeans,
engineer boots, and had an ivory colored comb sticking out of his right back
pocket. It was the biggest comb I have
ever seen, more suitable for a musk ox than a man. Ordinarily, I’d not give this scene much
notice, but I was forming an unfavorable opinion of the pudgy chap.
Then
as I stood in line behind the goofily attired douche-nozzle, I noticed the most
egregious of his sartorial assaults on my senses: his hat had no top. It was more a chimney with a brim than a hat,
and it accentuated his male pattern baldness. I was unkempt, and dressed in my
farm attire, so perhaps I may have offended some other nearby citizens, but
that possibility didn’t lessen the offense I took at this fellow’s nonsensical
garb. He and his companion ordered and
went on their way. I ordered the Freddie’s
steak burger, chili dog, and fries combo, and retreated to the restroom to
freshen up. Then what to my surprise, I
found myself standing in the stall next to the man in black.
He
said something that sounded like gibberish, and I replied in as friendly a tone
as I could muster, “Are you speaking to me?”
He
said more clearly, “Good evening to you sir.”
And
I replied in kind, “And good evening to you.
Sorry, but I don’t hear well.”
Then
he extended the conversation by adding. “I don’t hear well either, because I’m
a rock star. I play lead guitar in a
heavy metal band, and the years take a toll on the ears.”
It
occurred to me that line could be the lead line in a bad song, I couldn’t think
of any meaningful rejoinder, so I said, “I’m a banjo guy. clawhammer style in particular. But I’m certainly
not a star.”
“No
shit! I’m looking to buy a banjo.”
“Sorry,
I don’t have any for sale.”
By
now, we had washed our hands and left the bathroom, but continued to
converse. He introduced himself. “I’m xkd baldjaf (indecipherable gibberish),
and I’m the lead guitar player in the alkj dajd band. We’re on the radio all the time, but I still
have a day job. We do heavy metal, but I’m
also proficient in bluegrass and gospel.”
“Good
for you.” I replied without enthusiasm.
So,
in my tiny mind, I was thinking to myself, “What’s with the stupid ass hat
without a top?” and since we were now such conversational chums, I was
emboldened to say, “What’s with the absence of a top in your hat?”
He
laughed in a not altogether friendly manner and walked off, and I returned my
attention to my chili dog.
Now
I will never know.
The 100-Year-Old Man
Once
again, I owe a debt of gratitude to Bob Fay for re-introducing me to a
remarkable man. Bob, as observant
readers of former missives might recall, was featured as one of the stories in
my second book Ordinary People Who Aren’t. Bob also introduced me to Howard Haynes and
Bill Harris in San Miquel de Allende, who are also regaled in that anthology.
Bob
and his wife Susan now live at Mission Chateau a new, and exceedingly nice,
retirement community located in nearby Prairie Village, KS. Bob has introduced my books to many of his
neighbors and friends and continues to be my single best literary promoter. Owing to his efforts, I was invited to play my
banjo and tell a few stories from the books to a gathering of fellow
residents. It was well attended and
actually went amicably from my perspective.
There were no reported injuries.
At
Bob’s urging a down-the-hall neighbor read Ordinary People. He later reported to Bob, “I enjoyed the
book, and although I’m not named, I’m a character mentioned in the story about
the Pickle Factory. I was the guy that
Chuck came to see about investing in his attempts to purchase the business, and
I turned him down.”
The
last time I saw Ed was the summer of 1970 when I made my unsuccessful plea for
his hard-earned cash. Ed is the father
of a friend Kel, from both high school and Drury College days. He is also the father of Cindy, two years
younger than I, with whom I had my first date.
At the time, he was a big, intimidating guy with a successful construction
equipment business, and I was mightily stressed when I was met by Ed at his
doorstep as I arrived to pick up his daughter.
When
Bob learned of our connection, he went to work arranging a reunion over dinner
at the Mission Chateau. I dressed up for
the occasion. I recognized Ed
immediately and went over to greet him.
His first words were jovial, “You look like an old man.” I replied, “But you don’t. You look great.” His
second were, “What ever happened to that pickle company. I remember you coming over to the house to
pitch that deal just like it was yesterday.”
Ed
turned 100 on November 16, 2019. He
doesn’t look a day over 75. He appears
quite fit, he is sharp as a tack, and just seems to have a special
sparkle. According to Bob, Ed is the
best bridge player in their community. He
shot his age in golf at age 98. Ed later
reported that he shot his age at least once every year from age 80 through 98. Ed stood in a reception line at his 100th
birthday celebration for 2 hours greeting well-wishers.
After
dinner, we adjourned to Ed’s apartment to reminisce. Sadly, his son Kel died of cancer at the age
of 62. “The hardest thing I’ve ever had
to endure.” Kel and I played on the same
intramural basketball team for three years in high school. I told Ed that Kel dreamed up our name, ‘Scitsaps’,
which is spastics spelled backwards. He
laughed. Ed has remarkable recall of events
both long past and recent. He told
stories of growing up in Ohio on a farm, time in the navy during WWII, working
in Denver, and finally settling in Kansas City.
He remarked thoughtfully about the perfectly lovely city in which we
live. “I’m pretty well traveled, and I can’t imagine a nicer place to live and
raise a family,” and we all agreed. He
credited his now deceased wife for much of his happiness. “I don’t believe I ever once saw her mad or
angry.”
He
was a most gracious host, a lively teller of stories, and it was a true honor
to be in the presence of someone whose long life has been so well lived.
Russian Uber Drive
Over
the Thanksgiving holiday Judy and I spent a week in Brooklyn with son Ben,
daughter in law Deb, and our newest grandson, 4-month old Augie. All great fun. On the Friday after the holiday the five of
us journeyed to midtown Manhattan to meet friends Joel and Carol for a late and
lengthy lunch at Keen’s Steakhouse, a dining spot known for ceilings lined with
thousands of Churchwarden, aka long stemmed, smoking pipes. The company was exquisite, the food tasty,
and the wine plentiful. Augie was a
perfect dinner companion and charmed all in attendance.
We
rode back to Williamsburg via Uber in a giant Suburban. I was relegated to sitting in the way back
seat. Perhaps influenced by 3 ½ hours of
wine consumption, I was more than a wee bit chatty offering what I perceived to
be pearls of wisdom. Judy was sitting in
the front seat with the driver and learned he had recently arrived in the U.S.
from Russia. When we arrived at Ben’s
house, Judy instructed the driver, “After you let us the four of us out, just
drive away and keep the old guy in the way-back seat.” The driver smiled and said in his heavily
accented English, “That will cost double.”
Then
he helped me get out of the back, gave me a bear hug, and said, “I enjoyed your
observations. You’re welcome to ride
with me and tell stories. I’ll give you
half my fares.” I laughed and politely
declined his surely-non-serious offer.
Merry Christmas and Happy New
Year
This
missive obviously is arriving during the holiday season, so let me join the
joyful throng in wishing you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. And may I also extend to you my favorite
toast for the New Year, “May you always have someone to love, something to do,
and something to hope for.”
Chuck
Charles A. Wells,
Jr.
Author of Nude
Nuns and Other Peculiar People and Ordinary People Who Aren’t
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