I'm Still Here

 A quick post to keep this blog from disappearing. I'm still blogging actively at: The Misadventures of Widowhood.

Traveling the Dakotas

All of us have favorite stories we like to tell on ourselves. Undoubtedly, Don has more stories in him than any human being I’ve ever known. He’s got the kind of memory that can recall details of everything he’s ever done in his life, every conversation he’s ever had. Those of us who spent a lot of time with Don before the stroke used to tease him that we had all his stories numbered. When he’d start a tale occasionally we’d groan out: “That’s number seventy-seven” or “heard that one, Don. That’s number two hundred and twenty.” Sometimes that was enough for him to realize that he’d been dominating the conversation and it was time to let someone else talk. More often, the story just had to run its course. He was in ‘entertain mode’ with no off button to push. 

When my dad was getting up in years, I recorded all this stories. I have his voice on six or seven cassettes; his tales of growing up in coal mining towns in Illinois are at my finger tips. Who would have ever guessed that I should have done the same with Don’s stories? All I have of his pre-stroke voice is: “Hello, you have reached 5-3-yada, yadda, yadda. Please leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” The message is in a tapeless telephone/answering machine combo and I couldn’t bear to record over it, so I bought a new one. Some times when we get together with close friends someone will tell one of Don’s stories for him. He loves that. 

Unfortunately, I don’t have the same recall that Don has because I’d like to tell about the time we roamed around rural South and North Dakota, just checking out what made those states tick. That was our style of travel: back roads, small town restaurants, local color, garage sales and auctions, if we found them. Of course, you can’t travel South Dakota without stopping at the Wall Drug store. We did, and loved that blatant tourist trap. We’ve got one of their signs in our living room and if you'd ever been in South Dakota fifteen years ago, you'll understand the humor of that. Those Wall Drug Store signs were everywhere you'd go for miles on end. Don was a good looking, masculine and virile looking guy back then in his Levi's, Stetson cowboy hat and Pendleton shirts. No tourist trap, weekend cowboy gear for him. He also had the tooled leather gun belt for his 357 and fancy Tony Lama boots. He lived the western look here in Michigan whenever he could get away with it. And even though he has a gentle soul, he could bluff the Clint Eastwood tough guy thing whenever the situation called for it.In North Dakota, I had been driving when we stopped at their version of a rest stop---a pull-off with two outhouses. I had to go, Don didn’t. Just as I got back near our Chevy pickup two locals pulled up and asked for directions to an address in Chicago. 

“Chicago?” I’m thinking! “Who asks for directions to a street in Chicago when you’re sitting in the middle of no where, several states away?” Don, he told me later, thought they saw me get out of the truck and they’d planned on hassling what they thought from a distance was two women alone. Anyway, Don gets out of the passenger seat, grabs a map and unbeknownst to me he jams his 357 in the front of his jeans. It was clear that these two guys had been drinking and were up to no good. So I’m thinking, “Damned it, Don! Get back in the truck so we can get the hell out of here!” Don had another idea. He tells me he’ll drive and makes a big production out of putting the gun on the hood of the truck---within easy reach---pulls open the map and says to the guys: “Now what was that address you were looking for?” Talk about leaving a dust trail. 

Those two Native Americans couldn’t get out of there fast enough. No one messed with Don when he was in his Clint Eastwood persona. But my favorite thing that we found by chance while traveling The Dakotas was a herd of buffalo. I was so excited when we came up over a hill and spotted them that all I could say was, “Buff, buff, buffalo!” And up to the day of Don's stroke neither one of us ever said just plain old ‘buffalo’---it’s always “buff, buff, buffalo.” I'd give anything to hear Don tell about our adventures out west again if only for one more time so that I could record them. 

Jean ©