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| Dr. Davis Ford, moving quickly past the front porch of his Swankyenda at Lonesome. |
I should have known something was amiss when I tried to check into the Lubbock Holiday Inn at 1:30 PM on Friday, the opening day of our fifty-eighth High School Reunion. I had been up to Davis Ford’s place, “Lonesome” in the far reaches of the panhandle, west of Hereford. The setting there is magnificent—miles to the nearest town and four miles from New Mexico—but it is, as advertised, lonesome. It is thirty-eight miles from the nearest restroom, and at least two miles farther from the nearest shower. I stood there at the reception counter, tired, dirty, hungry, and smelling like an ancient goat.
“You need to come back at four. We are not allowing any check-ins until four. Sorry about that.” The smug, twenty-something, preppy desk clerk turned to attend to more pressing matters.
“Now, you wait just a minute, young man! I need a room—surely there are some clean ones. You don’t know who you’re dealing with here. Peck around on that electric machine and find me a room. I need a bath.”
“You certainly do, that is not in question. Our policies do not allow for early check-in. The proper time is 4:00PM.”
“I’d like to see your supervisor, right now.”
“So would I, but she left with a wallpaper salesman last Tuesday and no one’s seen her since. By the way, it is so much fun dealing with all you old people. I love the way you sputter and stomp around and turn red about something you can’t do anything about. It just makes my day.”
I can do something about it. I can karate chop the little snip in the Adam’s apple, and he won’t be able to talk for a week. That’s what I’ll do. I prepare to strike the devastating blow, and realize I have not used that maneuver since 1958, in Marine Corps boot camp. And there is that other thing—last week, I strained myself putting up the dishes; I can’t lift my arm above my shoulder.
“You be sure and come back after four now, you hear. I just love dealing with you older fellows. You’re so funny. This morning an old fart tried to karate chop me in the throat—his name was Merriman—said he’d been in the Marine Corps. Musta been World War One. It was hilarious.”
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| A Drill Instructor, calmly discussing the recruit's lineage. |
In spite of that cocky jerk, we had a great reunion. As I looked over the crowd, I remembered when we were young, we foolishly wanted everything to be stylish. We wanted the most desirable automobile, the best looking girl, the latest designer clothing, Italian shoes, British leather, the works. Now, as we age, comfort has become more important. The most popular footwear at our reunion, by far, was Nike running shoes. I know all those people didn’t just get in from the track. They wore the most comfortable shoes they own.
Most of the ladies opted to wear something loose. Some of the girls were slim, but even so, form-fitting clothing went out of style for them about thirty years ago. Jogging suits were popular. Of course, the men wore form-fitting clothing—they had no choice. Wal-Mart shirts only come in triple-extra-large and those are pretty tight on some of us. They stretch open to expose little swatches of pallid skin between the over-stressed buttons. My shirt would not stay tucked in—I let it hang out.
As the meeting broke up and we started to drift away, Wayne Ratisseau came up to me. “You hear about ole Frank Williamson. Eileen took him to the emergency room—he threw his back out. Tried to karate chop that smart-alec desk clerk. Was Frank in the Marine Corps?”
As a baseball coach told me, long ago, “As long as you’re swinging, you’re dangerous.” We’re still swinging—see you at the Sixtieth.
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| Sunrise at Lonesone. I still get a thrill when I see the country out there. It is plainly beautiful. |
