Princess Glitterpants tells me this is my special day. It’s all about ME!! I thought every day was about me, but evidently today really is. So far I have had bacon and a biscuit. Not those hard little cardboard ones, but a human biscuit, fluffy and buttery and delicious. I have been permitted to sleep in the Kingdom of Fluff and Squash this whole month!!! PGP snores, but that’s ok. I like being close to her. She says I get away with murder as it is, so she’s not sure how to top a regular day today. I take special offense to this mention of murder, ’cause I ain’t murdered nobody. And if I did, wouldn’t it be preferable that I got away with it? She’s very confusing sometimes. She says nobody would be brave enough to break in on us since I live here with all my scary teeth. I think this is amusing. She’s way meaner than me!!!
But back to my day. After breakfast, I got new toys. I got two new bones, a beaver, a cheeseburger in lieu of a birthday cake, and, best of all, a Sebastian 3.0. He’s an exact replica of the Sebastian that was my very first toy, ever. I don’t know how PGP got him, but I’m sure glad to see my old friend. This is me with my loot.
She also sang.
It was horrible, but don’t tell her that. I know it wasn’t meant as punishment.
Things sure have changed in a year. I don’t like to dwell in the past, us dogs are all about the here and now, but I want to tell you about my typical day a year plus one day ago. Then I’ll tell you about my one year ago today day.
I had just gotten a new bed. It was the only thing soft in my cell. And it was almost possible to be warm on it, since it wasn’t against the concrete. My world was gray, except for a few minutes a day where I was let out into the grassy enclosure alone to stretch my legs and do my business. I would never mess and tinkle in my cell, but sometimes I couldn’t wait to do the other and tried to keep it in the corner. Disgraceful, I know, and embarrassing to admit, but there wasn’t always enough staff to walk me when I needed to go out. So I did what I had to do when I had to do it.
I had food and water delivered to me twice a day, morning and night, and I tried my best not to make a mess. The digs weren’t bad, especially after being on the streets so long. It was a relief not to get shot at, or hollered at, or chased. I no longer had to dodge cars and people throwing stuff at me. I wasn’t out in the rain and cold. And mainly I was so thankful I didn’t have to root through waste and garbage to find something to eat. Or eat cat food that people left outside for the racoons or stray kitties. Everybody was so scared of me, so nobody left any doggie food out. They didn’t want a pit bull hanging around. Although obviously I’m just as much Labrador!
Staying in my cell 23 hours a day, with bright florescent lights on almost all the time, and a never ending cacophony of barking dogs, plus the train that rambled by regularly, it was like my ears couldn’t get a break. I like to bark, too, but not non-stop. So I thought that was it. The end of the road. I was vaguely aware of other dogs coming and going, but always heard I was “too big” “too energetic” “too strong” and “too scary”. Me?? Scary??? I think it’s my head. Even PGP says my head is blocky. And I do have a lot of teeth, like I mentioned before. I guess they thought I would steal their food. I don’t steal!! I have manners!! I take it-very gently, I might add- when it’s presented to me.
I can’t deny that I AM big, and I AM strong, and I AM energetic!!! I love to run and run and run. I get excited and I jump up on you. I call it vaulting, because I don’t stay long. I make a great kitchen dance partner, though. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
So every day was the same: constant noise, few humans to stroke my (too big) head, not much to do at all but lay there and wonder if this was really how it was gonna be forever. I did feel much better, but what good was that if I couldn’t go play with people?
After about four months of this same routine, one day the guy in charge came to my cell. He didn’t have food bowls. He greeted me warmly and scratched me behind my floppy ears after he got my leash and collar slipped on. He said there was somebody that wanted to meet me.
Meet ME???
THIS HAD NEVER HAPPENED.
And here’s a girl who smelled like bacon. I heard her say, “Oh, he’s not THAT big.” She had red hair and a worried expression as she watched me pull Kevin around on the asphalt. He made me stop and asked her if she wanted to walk me. It surprised me that she said yes, but she did, and we took off. I gave her a kiss first. I’m forward that way.
She let me take my time when I had to squat (I’m a terrible first date, but I had to GO). I tried to stick close to her but this was so out of the ordinary for me I couldn’t hardly contain myself. I was sniffing everything and kinda pulling her around. But a few times she gently jerked my leash and kissed at me and so I would trot over to her. I wanted to lick her face so bad. She asked me to sit and I dropped it like it was hot.
She awarded me with bacon from a plastic pouch.
I was in LOVE.
I would follow this Queen of Bacon anywhere.
We started back down to my building and I was so worried. I could feel my sadness growing with every step. But this is my fate. There were a whole bunch of workers outside watching our return. Didn’t they have dogs to walk? They should get busy.
“How’d it go?” The man in charge asked her.
She looked at me and shrugged. She was thinking I was too big, after all. I just knew it.
“I like him,” she said instead.
Kevin waited for the “but”.
She held his gaze and said nothing.
He turned to the girls. “Go get his cape and start his paperwork, this baby’s going home.”
And my redhead cried.
And I cried.
And I think everybody else was trying not to cry.
They put me in a rocket for a trial run down to the store to make sure I wouldn’t act like an idiot in the car. I was Very Good, even though it was only my third time in a rocket.
And we came back and I got buttoned into this ridiculous Superman cape and a harness because I would probably choke out from all the excitement in a regular collar. When the redhead saw me she smiled so big and I got in HER rocket, which turned out to be the fastest one of all. I managed to wiggle out of that dumb cape and spent the rest of the time looking out the windows and trying to act like I did this sort of thing all the time. After awhile I got sleepy (it was a LONG trip!!) And I put my (too big, blocky) head on her elbow. I heard her sniff. She started calling people and I heard how excited everybody was for us. It felt so good, evidently she’d been looking for me for a long time. I don’t know what took her so long, I’d been right there in that same spot for months. But we had each other now.
We finally quit going so fast and I sat up again and this time put my head on her shoulder. I refrained from licking her ear. It took a LOT.
We finally stopped and I got to see my new furever home for the first time. It was BEAUTIFUL. The best part was the enclosure. It was HUGE!!! It looked like I could run for DAYS!!! PGP walked me all around it a couple of times and then we went inside.
I WAS GOING TO LIVE HERE?!?!?EVERYTHING WAS SO SOFT AND IT SMELLED SO GOOD AND BEST OF ALL IT WAS JUST US!!! No other caterwauling dogs! No train! No florescent lights! There was my very own bed and all kinds of rooms to sniff and IS THAT A TOY FOR ME?!?!?!
OH
MY.
DOG.
I passed out at her feet. It was all too much.
And when I woke up, I was still here. And every day when I wake up, it’s all still here and I’m still here and it’s not a dream.
This is really happening.
I have food and water always. I have my own enormous yard and I can do whatever I want out there, except escape. I can chew sticks, dig holes, run, chase squirrels (but NOT the chickens…at least, not if PGP is home to see me), lay on the porch, wallow in the grass, bark at the neighbors, bark at the mailman, bark at the birds, and howl when the emergency vehicles go by. I have the dungeon, and it has cool concrete floors, and I don’t get in trouble if I’m down there for hours on end and I have to…you know. It’s ok. I like the dungeon, but don’t tell PGP. It’s where we play if it’s raining, so that’s a perk, too.
But my #1 favorite is upstairs with my redhead, laying wherever she is. I’m not allowed to Chesterplay on the couch or Kingdom of Fluff, doing so revokes my privileges, but I can lay there if I’m good and don’t act crazy. I get tidbits of whatever she’s eating. I forgot my ACTUAL favorite is when we go for Rocket rides to get fluffcups. We do this at least once a week, even though I get Chester hairs everywhere and drool on the windows. PGP is a bit of a neat freak. I have so many toys and I get more delivered to me once a month– MY name is on the box. If it rains while I’m outside, I am given the towel treatment upon entry. If she somehow senses it’s going to rain, I get to stay inside all toasty warm and dry. If she doesn’t know, usually I can get out of the rain somewhere. She never leaves me out if it’s cold. Or super duper hot. I’m heat intolerant, is what the guy told her, and she said she is, too. I was so scared of going up and down stairs when I came home (give me a break, I’d never seen them before!) But they don’t faze me now. I’m way quicker than PGP, even. I’m still not keen on being brushed, it tickles!!! The vacuum cleaner is a pest, but there’s no use barking at it like I used to. I just had to learn. PGP is amazed by what I already knew (sit, stay, lay down, shake) but she did teach me that cool spin move. We’ve still got work to do about getting in the bathtub, but you can’t have it all. I must retain a quirk or two.
I’m so glad this happened to me. It was definitely worth the wait at the holding place. There’s not even been any talk of Gypsies in some time. I know my redhead’s heart was totally shattered when I came here, but we’ve worked together and she says I’ve brought her so much joy. I know the Lightning Bug approves. He held on as long as he could but he knew she had love in her heart for another down-on-their-luck pibble.
I have met several of you this year, and I’m sorry if you weren’t one of the ones I warmed up to. My #1 priority is loving PGP, and with that love comes protection. I’m sure you meant no harm but I have to be on guard 100% of the time. And so I bark and act threatening. Like I said, PGP can hold her own but I’m s’post to scare you off first because she says ammo is really high and there’s no sense wastin’ it. Her aim is true, though, so it would only take one little bullet and you wouldn’t hurt for long, probably.
I hope you all have a fantastic and moderately spooky Halloween. We’re celebrating Howl-o-ween here, no spooks. PGP says she has plenty of ghosts and does not welcome more. And she doesn’t want to share her peanut m&m’s with the little goblins who might come knockin’.
Thank you for following my adventures these last 365 days. Thank you for the love and fun comments, all the sweet words you’ve expressed about me. October is both Adopt a Shelter Pet Month and Pit Bull Awareness Month, and it is my hope when you go looking for a companion you’ll check your local (and not so local) shelters first. Pit Bulls are the #1 dogs in shelters, and that means they’re the most bred dogs out there AND the ones being put to sleep more than any other breed. Some of us are a little aggressive, sure. You would be too if people taught you that’s what you had to be. But I promise we’re also among the most loyal, social, loving, and least shedding breeds out there. (I don’t count on that shedding bit, since I’m half Lab). We all just want somebody to love, and somebody to love us back. We were known as nanny dogs before those hateful men taught us to fight to death. Show us love and that’s what we’ll give back. Show us hate and eventually that’s what we’ll reflect.
So today is my birthday. PGP says it’s more of an anniversary, if we were to be technical about it, but it’s also like a Christian birthday, because I was born again into a new life. I’ve certainly lived different than I did before. I wish I could tell her how thankful I am, but I’m pretty sure she knows already. Happy Howl-o-ween from the redheads. Happy Gotcha Day to us.
Love, Chester Copperpot ❤️🐾
AKA Chess Pie, Chessmess, Chester Charles, Lord Chesterfield, Chesterpeake, Chesspiece, Chessie, The Comma, and GET DOWN!!!
Once upon a time, in a small white house, in a tiny little town, at the foot of some very old mountains, lived an extra large dog named Chester.
Chester was the color of chocolate pie filling just before it boils. He had white toes like he had walked through a shallow pail of paint. And maybe he had. Chester had a vicious bark and a vigorous wagging tail and he was very, very loved. He was also very, very spoiled, because the Princess who “owned” him had been very, very spoiled when she was a little girl.
When he wanted to go get a fluffcup and he used his very scary big britches bark to get her attention, the Princess would tell him, “Chester, the Rolling Stones taught me you can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.” And then the Princess would go and make them a roast or meatloaf, or sometimes a barbeque sandwich.
And Chester loved the roasts and the meatloaves and the barbeque sandwiches.
And he and the Princess lived happily ever after.
Especially when she scratched his belly when he was full of meatloaf.
You aren’t supposed to talk about your good deeds. And I know a man who didn’t. I once had a friend who was into saving dogs. She was a little overzealous about it, honestly, going without provisions herself just to help another dog. You have to draw the line somewhere, and that’s why I only have Chester. He’s all I can afford when I give him the life I feel like he deserves.
I’m off track. So I had this friend. She was overrun with dogs and it got to where she couldn’t feed the ones she had. I put on here she was needing some help, she’d gotten in over her head, and she was having a yard sale if anybody had stuff to donate to go towards the care of the dogs she’d rescued.
My friend and neighbor messaged me and said for me to bill him a bag of dog food to give to the lady the next time she came in. He couldn’t stand to see an animal hungry. There is a special place in Heaven for animal lovers, I feel sure.
He fed me, too: bags of cucumbers, tomatoes, lettuce, and I don’t know what all from his garden. He was always friendly, encouraging me to come visit him and his wife, Mary, as they just lived over the hill. It was always a good time when you’d go and sit a spell in the hallway of the barn or in the iron chairs outside the old farmhouse. We’d catch up on current Seymour events and discuss the deterioration of the community due to Yankee invasion. I learned a lot about Poco Bueno bloodlines and the Waggoner Ranch in Texas. It was fascinating to hear stories from the Civil War that were largely unknown. We shared a love of history books, jokes, old country music, and an eye for good horses. He and Mary were advocates for the library, as libraries are a means to keep history alive.
Bob looked the part of an old cowboy, and that’s what he was, although I never saw him sit astride a horse. It was just in his bearing. Arms as tough as a walnut tree, tanned and scratched and scarred from years of labor outside. He always wore a “gimmee” hat {Note the one in his obituary picture–Soil Conservation, wonder where that came from?}, mesh back most of the year, thin cotton plaid shirts with a pocket where he’d put his Co-op receipt, loose fitting dark Wranglers with knife in the front pocket and a snot rag in the back. He wasn’t tall, but he had a big voice and an easy, fun laugh.
Bob was an avid emailer, we continually sent each other articles, news, and jokes when we found something we knew the other would enjoy. I loved it when we all got Facebook because then Bob and I could really fire them back and forth and we could keep a bead on the neighborhood whenever we had a storm or heard shooting. And also to update in the war on beavers. His love for animals did NOT extend to beavers. He & his wife always adopted dogs from the shelter, and they always got their dog a friend–they didn’t keep just one, even though they were home nearly all the time. “A dog needs a buddy,” Bob would say. They always made sure they had good vet care, and their horses were kept in the same manner. They bred carefully, and the horses were not sold off as they lost their usefulness, they were retired out to pasture (with friends) and put down humanely when the time came years later. They kept the same farrier for 26 years. That should tell you about their loyalty, ethics, and trust.
Bob’s feed order went like this for all the years I knew him: “Four bags of Horseman’s Edge, bag of oats, two bags of old man food {this is his way of saying Golden Years for his ageing horses}, and a bag of black oil sunflower seeds.” Bob trusted me for nutritional guidance, and he didn’t mix feed although it sounds like it. He had a wide range of horses with different dietary requirements and he fed accordingly. Plus he fed the birds 
He might pick up a few odds and ends- a few pounds of nails, hydraulic fluid, herbicides in the spring, some fertilizer. We’d tell a story or two and catch up on the current state of affairs and then he’d say, “Let’s go down to the Poorhouse, come see us,” and then I wouldn’t see him again till the following Tuesday morning.
There’s a lot of things I don’t miss about the Co-op, and a lot of people I do. Bob Watt is one I will surely miss.
“Never meddle in the affairs of Dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup”
https://www.atchleyfuneralhome.com/obituaries/Bobby-Eugene-Watt?obId=22770072#/obituaryInfo
I don’t know why, but this is the song that comes to mind when I think of Bob.
“Ride Me Down Easy”
Waylon Jennings
This ol’ highway, she’s hotter than nine kinds of hell
And the rides, that are scarce as the rain
When you’re down to your last shuck with nothin’ to sell
And too far away from the trains
Been a good month of Sundays and a guitar ago
Had a tall drink of yesterday’s wine
Left a long string of friends, some sheets in the wind
And some satisfied women behind
Won’t you ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down?
Leave word in the dust where I lay
Say, “I’m easy come, yeah, and I’m easy go
And easy to love when I stay”
Left snow on the mountain, raised hell on the hill
Locked horns with the devil himself
Been a rodeo bum, and a son-of-a-gun
And a hobo with stars in my crown
Won’t you ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down?
Leave word in the dust where I lay
Say, “I’m easy come, yeah, and I’m easy go
And easy to love when I stay”
Won’t you ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down?
Leave word in the dust where I lay
Say, “I’m easy come, yeah, and I’m easy go
And easy to love when I stay”
I’m not crazy, I’m just bored.
Allow me to explain how this “seed” was planted: a few weeks ago, I was chatting with a friend. She was leaving work early that day to go home and can beans. This is a pretty common reason to miss work around these parts, at least in my circle, this time of year. Whether it’s harvesting hay, soybeans, tobacco, or canning, farm work won’t wait on office work. ‘Gotta make hay while the sun shines’ as the saying goes. It would be more accurate if it was ‘while the sun beats down and tries to kill you’, but close enough. So anyway, I was telling her I still have beans my grandmother canned, and she died in 2008. I wouldn’t be scared to eat them; they look alright and have been kept in a dark cabinet upstairs where the temperature doesn’t fluctuate. My friend said that one of her wedding presents from her in-laws was several jars of green beans. They’d been stored in the basement, wrapped in newspaper. And it got me to thinking about the life of a green bean. Some country music artists have written songs about teardrops, and I don’t see much difference. So here goes.
I am told that my mother plant was designed and cultivated on a vast farm in Oregon, among many other certified seeds. I only remember life since I became packaged with roughly 400 of my brothers and sisters. Many of us didn’t make it, we were culled before ever being coated with inoculant. That’s why I was a pink green bean. I was white underneath, though. So anyway, I made it through inspection because I wasn’t deformed and I didn’t have any bug bites. I was as perfect a bean as you’ve ever laid eyes on. So I was placed into a bag, weighed, sealed, and labeled, and then layered into a cardboard box. I awaited transport, which was by train, on a pallet with many just like me.
I eventually arrived far east, and was moved into a cargo truck. Here we got divvied up. I stayed on my pallet, but others went other ways. Life was dark during this time. We just heard movement.
I wasn’t settled long in the warehouse where the truck brought me. Now the other boxes on my pallet were removed and shuffled and restocked, and I was on the road again. It had been four days since I had left Oregon, and I had been pulled off the vine last year. My life was well underway.
When I was finally unearthed from my box, it was in a well lit building that smelled of work. A young person with freckles and a scowl hung me on a metal peg. I didn’t hang there long. A man in overalls and a shirt with snaps and a pocket reached for me. I was quickly handed off to his wife, who used a pencil to strike through a line on her list. A bag of hot pink dyed corn joined me in the basket, along with some cucumber and okra seeds. I knew them from before. Okra are especially difficult to get to know, they’re like little stones. But corn is flashy and friendly and shoots up so quick you don’t recognize it from the day before. They are constantly having to reintroduce themselves. Tomato plants were placed on top of us, and a pack of squash added as an afterthought. There was some discussion of there still being seeds left from last season tucked away in the freezer.
“That’s enough work for one day, we feed half the Valley as it is,” the man in overalls grumbled to his wife.
But then he bought three pounds of onions and a bag of taters. Plus lime and fertilizer, ‘cause you can’t ever have enough lime in these parts. Or so he said. I got the sensation that the lady ringing us up and tossing us in a paper sack would be glad when he got gone. I think his wife felt the same, she was eyeballing the rat poison display pretty hard.
A short ride later, I was dumped unceremoniously onto a wooden table. A plan was hatched but it didn’t seem to be much of a plan since it didn’t deviate from last year’s layout. But that’s ok since he’d put all that cow manure and wood ash down last winter.
It wasn’t long before two or three of us at a time were dropped into little divots in the cold, red, mud. The squash, on the other hand (not the new, but the old, which was indeed found wrapped up in a parcel in the freezer), was planted in little mounds a few feet apart. A shallow trench was dug with a mattock for the okra, and the pods that had soaked in water all day were dribbled along and covered. And all went dark again for seven days and seven nights.
I felt a twisting, an unbearable urge to split. You would think the pain would be excruciating, but it was only mildly uncomfortable as I came apart and burst outward and upward. I wiggled a bit, then really got into it and clawed my way to the warmth and warmer soil. What began as a single tiny little sprout had doubled in size by the next day. I tripled, I quadrupled, I put out leaves. My leaves were green, then greener, then the greenest green. I have no other way to describe them. I’m just a bean, after all.
During this time, the man and woman came by daily, sometimes twice daily, tending the soil by killing invasive weeds, side dressing the corn with nutrients. We got sprayed to keep the itchy creepy crawly bugs off us. We saw toads nearly every night, which helped, too. The sun felt so good in those days, and the nitrogen rich rain even better. We saw deer, and rabbits, and coons, but aside from my neighbor getting nibbled one night, we were no worse for the wear. Once there was a turtle, but he stayed near the tomatoes, and spoke of a black snake in the blackberries along the fence row.
After some time, I began to bear fruit. First came a little hard pod which opened to a white flower that bees and wasps visited, then it fell off to be replaced by a longer, flatter seed pod. Mini mes! It was so exciting! The people picked these when they were still tender, about three inches long. And I assumed they went on to lead a life like mine.
Of course, this wasn’t the case. The first few were cooked immediately and served with hot buttered cornbread, sliced red tomatoes, and fried okra and potatoes. Then, as my companions and I really began to produce, the baby beans met all sorts of fates.
Some were put into a basket and carted to the local farmers market to be hawked over. Others were given by the plastic bags full to neighbors, friends, and people the church ministered to. And a sight were canned, the most glorious fate of all. Because then you were practically immortal. You could live forever behind your glass walls, brought out only when times were thin, or perhaps at a holiday meal. One of the BIG ones, like Thanksgiving or Easter. It was something to aspire to, to be a canned green bean.
But me? My time is finished, my vines have withered. I have served this earth well, and will soon be composted to give life to the next crop. And this was my life. My life as a green bean.
It began with the song Hot Rod Lincoln.
Ronnie Brackins was my friend, although he would have never admitted it. But the crowd in the parlor testified to Ronnie’s overall likeability. I was outside, marveling at his John Deere parked at the porte couche, and every time the attendants opened the glass doors I could hear the laughter and boisterous conversation inside.
I signed the book and added ‘Co-Op’ in parentheses. I never really knew Ronnie’s children, so I didn’t go up front, instead slipping into the pew beside Robin and Jerry. It is the official Co-op pew. As we sat there, I remembered well another funeral we had attended for another tire shop employee years ago.
And then I had to grin, because I remembered the more recent time I’d sat here- the funeral of Joe Woods. That was the time I’d got in the wrong car, mistakenly thinking it was Robin’s, and instead it was piloted by a guy with a nose ring and a young lady with some pink hair who were horrified that a stranger was attempting to climb in their backseat at Food City soon after they parked. I was even moving their Christmas presents out of my way.
I digress.
So here comes Margaret, and boy was I glad to see her. She is one of the sweetest women to ever work at the Co-op. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a coon’s age. She looked exactly the same. Instantly, I remembered a story from her years working with Ronnie.
Margaret worked the gas window. In the old days, it was part of the office. After a remodel in 2001, the gas window became adjacent to the tire shop when the office moved to the back, between the warehouse and showroom. This meant Margaret was now interacting with tire shop employees and patrons regularly.
And the tire shop loved nothing better than a good joke.
And more often than not, Ronnie Brackins was the mastermind of said joke.
So Margaret had a headache. She was sitting at her desk with her head on her arms and her eyes closed. Ronnie, ever solicitous, asked if she was ok.
“Oh, Ronnie, I’ve just got the worst headache!”
Ronnie, never one to miss an opportunity, asked what she had tried to get rid of it.
Standard fare. Tylenol, Advil, whatever.
“Oh, the best cure is orange peels,” he advised, gravely serious.
“Orange peels???”Margaret asked with wonder. I should add here that Margaret is very, very gullible.
“Oh yeah, orange peels. Haven’t you ever heard of that? I remember my granny used them and swore by it! Must be an old mountain cure. I can’t believe you’ve lived here your whole life and never heard of using them.”
“Well, what do you do with them? Boil them and stand over the pot?”
“Oh no, you just put them in your ears.”
“In your ears?? Now, Ronnie. You’re going on with me!”
“I’m not!!! I’m telling you, my granny did it, and my momma too!”
“So I just peel an orange and cram the peelings in my ears?”
Ronnie nodded enthusiastically, excited that his plan was coming to fruition.
Next thing you know, Margaret had located her an orange, or at least the peelings (or maybe Ronnie did to speed the process along), and had them dangling from each ear canal like orange snake earrings, merrily ringing people up as they pumped their fuel.
This went on for hours.
Ronnie came out of the shop to turn in a ticket and couldn’t hold back any longer, looking at poor Margaret, blissfully oblivious to the joke. He broke down in hysterical laughter, and finally told her the truth.
Ronnie almost died on that day in 2001.
But instead he passed away Monday, twenty years later, surrounded by his legacy: his children and grandchildren.
I worked with Ronnie for several years. He liked me because I had the good sense to drive a Chevrolet pickup. Although he almost killed me once.
I was new. Ronnie did alignments in the first bay. The door from the tire shop showroom into the tire shop swung a little wildly and I was too short to see through the plate glass at the top… and I’m not a very considerate person, anyway. I would never work out in food services. Anyway, I was hell bent on running a ticket out to the board and banged through the door.
Ronnie, as I said, worked in that first bay. He had a dually truck on the racks for alignment. He had the machine nearly calibrated and was working on the final tire alignment when I swung through. The door whammed the machinery attached to the front tire on the passenger side, sending all measurements askew.
Ronnie hollered as the computer began to beep alarmingly.
I apologized profusely, knowing it was bad. I had been careless. It was a tight fit there anyway, with a regular vehicle.
Ronnie simmered down and we went on about our day, him starting over on the truck that he’d already spent about three hours on.
A few hours later, I had to run another ticket out. And once again, I failed to remember the truck that Ronnie had been slaving over just inches from the door.
Yes, I hit it again. Yes, Ronnie cussed. Yes, I cried and ran for cover.
It took us about a week to speak again.
Ronnie’s good friend was Danny and I guess I can tell this now that they’re both dead and gone. On their lunch hour, they would frequent the local city pool and watch the girls in their bathing suits like a couple of dirty old men 🤣🤣
And now that I’ve told that, I can tell you that Ronnie raised three kids all by himself and did a bang up job. They’re all well and have a strong work ethic and sense of self. The three of them took turns speaking tonight, in lieu of a preacher, because Ronnie didn’t frequent the church house for his sermons. He got them on the farm, in the woods, and on the lake. But not to worry, he knew the Lord.
His oldest son said Ronnie was every dad any of us had: he was the strongest, bravest, most protective, meanest, and hardest working man alive. He was hard on you but would tell you he loved you and that he was proud when the day was done. I corrected him in my mind- only the most fortunate have dads like that.
I kept looking around the parlor for Rick, his brother. I keep forgetting Rick passed this past February. I’d say they sure did shake and howdy and then got down to work in Heaven under the direction of two Fathers.
Ronnie’s health began to decline around the time Darrel left, and he began disability. I would save wheat pennies for him and he’d come in for cattle feed and salt and we’d trade out money.
The children were mystified this week as they began going through his possessions. They found a multitude of hats and a surplus of ammo and knives, but I wasn’t surprised at all. I wonder what they’ll think when they find the stockpile of wheat pennies.
The service started with Hot Rod Lincoln and ended with Free Bird. We had plenty of tears and laughs along the way. The service was continued at the farm, Jack Daniels in attendance. They joked that Ronnie was cremated so he wouldn’t have to attend his own funeral. He never did like being out in public.
I’ll miss you ol’ buddy, and I’ll see ya later. 🍻
You ask me what I'm doing
But if you'd think you'd already know
I'm watching the world wake up
From my porch
I'm admiring the sparkle of the dew in the grass like forgotten jewels
And counting birds
And listening to water drip
The locusts are gearing up
As I sip my coffee
While Chester makes his rounds
The tiny lizard darts among my flowerpots
Old Glory
At half staff
Is still proud
Not beaten
Just a little broken
For a little while
No breeze stirs her this morning
A few bees out already
Seek nectar from my petunias
I watch the chickens compete for bugs
Jerking their heads, their keen eyes zero in on their next victim
Another leaf drops from my redbuds
Traffic is increasing
As the sun gets brighter
And I suppose I should get up
But I'll miss all this
So instead I write a poem
That doesn't rhyme
That most people won't understand
And I tell you simply,
"Sittin' on my porch"
