I arrive in Rugby
on Friday afternoon, March 10, 2006, and pull up to the office at Oakwood Inn. Therese Rocheleau is on duty - she is always on duty, or nearly so - and she checks me in. We sit in the lobby and have a cup of coffee, then another cup, and catch up on the news. Big Jim is on the road, expected back Friday night or Saturday; Jim drives long-haul semi. Therese's dad, Clayton Olson, is staying at the motel again this winter with his big dog Ufdah. Jim and Therese's son who had been talking about joining the Marines when I was here three years ago did join the Marines. He's a loader in a tank crew stationed at Camp Falluja, Iraq, right in the heart of trouble. Therese talked to him in January. She says her son tells Jim things he doesn't tell her, and it's probably just as well because she worries.
Clayton Olson comes out of his room and into the lobby and joins us. Clayton is movin' kinda slow these days. He says some mornings it takes him an hour to get loosened up so he can move at all. Arthritis. He's about 80 years old, you know. He has his cup with him and has coffee with us.
Teddy, the handyman about the place, stops in to say hello. He mentions that Big Jim is going to cut down those cottonwoods that dropped a big limb on me the last time I was here. How big was the branch? It was all two big men could do to move it. When it broke lose, it didn't make much sound. When I looked up, the sharp end of it was about four feet from my head. I was fortunate to get out of the way of the worst of it - a small cut on my forehead, a scrape on my abdomen; the chair I had been sitting in, bent and ruined; the table I had been writing at, tipped over. The corner of my tent behind me got a small tear.
I had just been writing about how those cottonwoods talk, talk, talk - I hadn't even finished the sentence when the limb came down on me. Lesson: If you're gonna talk about cottonwood trees, don't be sitting beneath one.
We have coffee, then Clayton wants to take me to supper over at the Cornerstone Cafe. I remind him that he bought me breakfast the last time: it is my turn. And with that understanding, we head to the restaurant.
Clayton thinks the soup and salad bar will be enough supper for him. He gets himself a bowl of clam chowder and a salad. I order the BBQ ribs. Umm-good. We talk, Clayton and I. He moves a little slower than he used to, and he has gone a little more deaf than he was.
When I drop Clayton back at the motel, we agree to go to breakfast in the morning. I do a quick drive through downtown, just to be sure Rugby is there as I remember it.
To be continued....
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