When my dad was getting up in years, I recorded all his 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 was in a tapeless telephone/answering machine combo and I couldn’t bear to record over it, so I bought a new phone. I kept the phone until I downsized to move here and thus that little bit of his voice was finally gone too. After his stroke some times when we got 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 but if I did I'd 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 could 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 because back in those days it was literally the only thing around for miles and miles. I still have one of their their signs in my curio cabinet and if you'd ever been in South Dakota back in the past century, you'll understand the humor of that. Those Wall Drug
Store signs were everywhere in a hundred mile radius advertising their free glasses of ice cold water.
Don was a 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 that matched his fancy Tony Lama boots. He lived the western look here in Michigan whenever he could get away with it. And even though he had 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? you're 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 got out of the passenger seat, grabbed a map and unbeknownst to me he jammed 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 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 from that day on 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 one of our adventures out west again even if it was only on a recording. ©
Note: I wrote this 15 years ago and if you recognize it you're either a long time reader or have been doing a deep dive in my archives. I needed a writing break so my social life has a change to create something new to write about. Should be a good week for that. The photo is of Don when he was a kid.
