complete with shingle roof. It bore the name Culpepper. I turned down the dirt driveway and eventually found a house one hundred yards from the highway.
It was a rambling hodgepodge of logs, rough vertical planks, smooth tongue-and-groove slats, aluminum siding, asphalt siding, bricks, stone, and cedar shingles. Bay windows and huge sliding doors were scattered indiscriminately along the exterior. I later discovered that the inside was as varied as the outside, finished with paneling, Sheetrock, fabric, Formica, logs, and brick. The startling appearance was due to the fact that Mr. Culpepper was a construction contractor and used whatever he had left over from a job to remodel his own house.
Jolene answered the door with a dangerous look in her eyes, in my estimation, but when she learned of my mission, she deferred to her mother and disappeared. I made a sale and a hasty exit, uneasy about where Jolene might have gone and what she might be planning.
Continuing down the highway, I saw plenty of pines but a distinct shortage of houses. At last I discovered a large dirt road heading east. I took it toward the river, which was five miles back as the crow flies and an eternity as the bike rides. I figured where there was a road, there were people. And there were, just not many. I went a mile before I hit the first house, brick with a large carport and a bass boat next to it. The mailbox revealed that the Walkers lived there. A set of legs jutting from under a fairly new F-150 pickup revealed that at least one Walker was present.
I paused, unsure whether to address the legs or ignore them and knock on the door, when my dilemma was solved for me. The door opened and a short slender man in jeans and sport shirt came out carrying a large glass of iced tea and a can of beer. I recognized him from church, where he taught the high school Sunday school class along with his wife, Peggy. Heidi gave them good reviews, especially the cookouts they held for the youth group at the pond on their farm. I sometimes played with their one-year-old daughter, Kristen, when Heidi was baby-sitting. She smiled for everyone else, but usually just looked at me with a blank expression. I have that effect on kids.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Hey, Mr. MacDonald.”
“Just call me Mac. Everybody else does.” Everybody I knew called him “Old MacDonald,” which was hardly surprising given his name and the fact that he ran the family truck farm. I decided to keep this information to myself for the moment.
Mac placed the drinks on the hood and kicked the boots protruding from the shade of the truck. “Wake up, Parker, looks like you got company.”
A few cuss words came from under the truck, and Mac looked at me, shrugging his shoulders. Parker slid out from under the truck, holding an oil pan, and then saw who I was.
“Uh, sorry about that.” He pulled himself to his feet on the front grill of the truck. His jeans and white T-shirt were a montage of dirt and grease. He towered over Mac, stocky and sunburned, thick black hair pushed back in a cowlick over his dirty forehead.
“That’s OK.” I held out a
Grit
. “Would you like to buy a newspaper, Mr. Walker?”
“Mr. Walker? Geez, kid, just call me Parker. This ain’t no finishin’ school.” He shifted the oil pan to his left hand and drank half of the beer, leaving black prints on the can as he set it down.
“OK, Parker. Want to buy a paper? Only twenty-five cents!”
“Well, now, that is a bargain. You got two bits on yer, Mac?”
Mac fished out a dollar. “Here, give me two and keep the change.”
“Thanks!” As I turned to leave, a car arrived, two women and a baby in the front seat and a large number of paper grocery sacks in the backseat. I nodded politely at the new arrivals and, while waiting for the dust to settle, saw Parker grab a few sheets of the newspaper, drop them on the grass, and lay the oil pan on top of them. I suspected other patrons might find even more creative
It was a rambling hodgepodge of logs, rough vertical planks, smooth tongue-and-groove slats, aluminum siding, asphalt siding, bricks, stone, and cedar shingles. Bay windows and huge sliding doors were scattered indiscriminately along the exterior. I later discovered that the inside was as varied as the outside, finished with paneling, Sheetrock, fabric, Formica, logs, and brick. The startling appearance was due to the fact that Mr. Culpepper was a construction contractor and used whatever he had left over from a job to remodel his own house.
Jolene answered the door with a dangerous look in her eyes, in my estimation, but when she learned of my mission, she deferred to her mother and disappeared. I made a sale and a hasty exit, uneasy about where Jolene might have gone and what she might be planning.
Continuing down the highway, I saw plenty of pines but a distinct shortage of houses. At last I discovered a large dirt road heading east. I took it toward the river, which was five miles back as the crow flies and an eternity as the bike rides. I figured where there was a road, there were people. And there were, just not many. I went a mile before I hit the first house, brick with a large carport and a bass boat next to it. The mailbox revealed that the Walkers lived there. A set of legs jutting from under a fairly new F-150 pickup revealed that at least one Walker was present.
I paused, unsure whether to address the legs or ignore them and knock on the door, when my dilemma was solved for me. The door opened and a short slender man in jeans and sport shirt came out carrying a large glass of iced tea and a can of beer. I recognized him from church, where he taught the high school Sunday school class along with his wife, Peggy. Heidi gave them good reviews, especially the cookouts they held for the youth group at the pond on their farm. I sometimes played with their one-year-old daughter, Kristen, when Heidi was baby-sitting. She smiled for everyone else, but usually just looked at me with a blank expression. I have that effect on kids.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Hey, Mr. MacDonald.”
“Just call me Mac. Everybody else does.” Everybody I knew called him “Old MacDonald,” which was hardly surprising given his name and the fact that he ran the family truck farm. I decided to keep this information to myself for the moment.
Mac placed the drinks on the hood and kicked the boots protruding from the shade of the truck. “Wake up, Parker, looks like you got company.”
A few cuss words came from under the truck, and Mac looked at me, shrugging his shoulders. Parker slid out from under the truck, holding an oil pan, and then saw who I was.
“Uh, sorry about that.” He pulled himself to his feet on the front grill of the truck. His jeans and white T-shirt were a montage of dirt and grease. He towered over Mac, stocky and sunburned, thick black hair pushed back in a cowlick over his dirty forehead.
“That’s OK.” I held out a
Grit
. “Would you like to buy a newspaper, Mr. Walker?”
“Mr. Walker? Geez, kid, just call me Parker. This ain’t no finishin’ school.” He shifted the oil pan to his left hand and drank half of the beer, leaving black prints on the can as he set it down.
“OK, Parker. Want to buy a paper? Only twenty-five cents!”
“Well, now, that is a bargain. You got two bits on yer, Mac?”
Mac fished out a dollar. “Here, give me two and keep the change.”
“Thanks!” As I turned to leave, a car arrived, two women and a baby in the front seat and a large number of paper grocery sacks in the backseat. I nodded politely at the new arrivals and, while waiting for the dust to settle, saw Parker grab a few sheets of the newspaper, drop them on the grass, and lay the oil pan on top of them. I suspected other patrons might find even more creative
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