I sat at the luncheon bar of a local diner for an afternoon cup of coffee. The day had been long and I was ready for something less stressful than business so I readjusted myself on the corner stool enjoying the way the stool still swiveled like most of them did when I was a kid. As I celebrated this brief bit of nostalgia, an old gentleman came and sat across the corner from me. He smiled, ordered a cup of coffee, looking around the room. “Not many people in here today. Not many people in here most days. I don’t mind it much but I hope they can make a livin’ without a crowd in here.”
Sitting across from the old gentleman I had a feeling any conversation we would share in the next few minutes would be memorable. His wrinkles defined a face that had seen its share of ups and downs in life. The nicotine stained fingers, the bulge in the pocket of his white, but stained button down shirt gave their own testimonials as to how a few more wrinkles made it on the heavily lined face. You could tell he wanted to light one up in the worst way but new ordinances forbade such activity. Instead, he sipped the strong black coffee as a poor second for the need of a quick fix.
“Where ya from?” He set his cup down, wiped his yellowed mustache on a napkin, and leaned forward in anticipation of a little tete’ a tete’. “I grew up in McCullough county, working on the Richardson Ranch and until recently thought I would die there. But I got old, the owners’ sold the place to a corporation who really didn’t have need of an old cowboy. My daughter moved me up here to live with her and her kids but I think it was more of a mercy move, not one of those ‘I really want you here Dad’ moves.” He sipped his coffee again and then asked me what I did.
I gave him a brief description of my work and what I found to be thrilling or challenging about it and he nodded solemnly. “It’s good to love your work. Pay matters, I guess, but I never made much but I loved being on a horse, fixin’ fence, workin’ cows, or just taking care of the place. The joy of my work more than made up for any pay.”
I asked him if his wife was still alive and he gave me a chagrined look and shook his head. “Nah, my Marcy didn’t cotton to ranch life much, especially the lack of wages. She took the two girls and high tailed it out of there back in the 60’s. I got a letter a few months later from some lawyer over Ft. Worth way saying she had filed for a divorce and that I needed to show up for a judge to tell us what all we got to keep or part company with. We didn’t have much so there wasn’t a lot to split up and since the ranch provided most of my needs, I let her take it all except my daddy’s 30.30 and my mama’s bible. I didn’t see the girls very much after that ‘cept for an occasional summer stay for a week or two when their momma wanted to go somewhere on a trip. The girls loved the ranch and working with animals or riding the combines during wheat harvest. I think they would’ve moved in with me if they thought I would take ‘em. I didn’t ask them though cause they were doing so well over there in Ft. Worth.”
I wasn’t sure how much he wanted to say so I just watched the waitress warm up our coffee mugs, waiting for him to start up again. He sipped the fresh hot brew and then smiled at me. “Never did understand women much. You can break a horse, lead a cow down a chute, but you can’t change a woman’s mind iffen she was of the mind to not have it changed. i do think I understand better now than I did then that you handle them different than you would any other creature.”
“Such as?”
“Welp, I know you can soft talk a horse into a bridle but it seems the more you talk to a woman the more trouble you get in. I think I realize now you are best off just using one word answers to any question they ask if you don’t want to find yourself pinned against the gate with no way out from flailing hooves. If they ask, ‘do you like the way I cooked the roast’ then you just say ‘yes’ and leave it at that. Try to say anything more and you are just liable to find yourself in a pickle.”
“That is a little cynical, isn’t it?”
“Trust me on this son, the less said the safer you’ll be.” He took another sip of coffee and looked longingly at the pies in the confectionery shelves. I asked him if he would like a piece, my treat, and he nodded his head yes. I motioned for the waitress and he ordered a cherry pie with a scoop of ice cream on it. The waitress brought him his pie and he dove in. “Good stuff, a little tart though. They might want to put some more sugar in it.” About that time the waitress came back to hit our coffee mugs again and asked the old man if liked the pie. “Yes ma’am. I do.” She smiled and walked away. He grinned at me. “See? She’s happy and I get to finish the pie.”
“Now my daughter doesn’t understand this important piece of advice. She asks me if I like her meatloaf. Frankly, I have ate a possum in my past when my daddy couldn’t find anything else to shoot and times were hard that tasted better than her meatloaf and was much less objectionable to look at but being she is my youngun’ I tell her, ‘yes, I like the meatloaf.’ She then begins to tell me that I can’t like her meatloaf because her kids all gag when they try to it. Either I am lying or my smoking for 45 years has toasted my taste buds. I tell her ‘yes, probably’ and take another bite of the vile log of God knows what, and she starts in on me about not wanting to talk about anything. How can she help me if I don’t talk to her? I tell her ‘yes, that makes sense’ and she just ups and takes the meatloaf away and I sneak out back for a smoke.”
“See, if I told her the truth and tried to explain to her that a meatloaf that most likely would kill most stray dogs is not a good thing to serve a man of my age, she would be offended and then set out to improve on the meatloaf and I can tell you, that would be as painful as the stopping of your forward momentum on a fast horse by hanging up on the saddle horn when the horse puts on the brakes.”
I smiled at that and waited to hear his next piece of advice. He didn’t offer any as the urge for a smoke overcame his enjoyment of our conversation. He slapped his pocket, pulled out the pack of Marlboro’s, shook one out and then slapped his other pockets for something to light the cigarette with. I slipped a lighter out of my pocket and he thanked me. Reaching into his pocket for some wadded bills to pay out, he mumbled his thanks to me for the pie and I told him I would cover the coffee too which made him smile as he waved goodbye to me, heading out the door to the open air where he could light his much anticipated nicotine fix.
I paid out and walked outside and saw the old man standing by the bus stop drawing the much needed smoke into his lungs. He gave me a wry grin as I passed and wished him a good day. He acknowledged me again with a nod as he took another drag. I couldn’t help but notice he looked out of place in our small city waiting on public transportation. No doubt he longed for a horse to slip a leg over and ride off into the sunset where cows waited to be herded, hay waited to be stacked, and the reward for a long day’s work was good meatloaf for supper followed by a soft bed on which to lay his weary bones.
