A Day in the Life - Part Four

I’m writing this from the front porch of my mom-in-law’s house. Molly James is eighty-five years old and fitter than I am at seventy-two. She’s a football fanatic and never misses a Kansas City Chiefs game; ringing a huge cowbell whenever they score a touchdown. Scares the hell out of me every time.  

She raises chickens, has two mules, several cats, a dog named Shelby, and she manages all these beasts on her own. She’s a badass. 

Molly feeds us an endless supply of brownies, coffee cakes and Starbuck’s coffee. She even drives us to and from the airport in a huge red pickup truck that causes me to make grunting noises when I have to climb in. Molly James is a wonder and we love her. Her husband Charlie James died two years ago this coming November at the age of ninety-three. Must be some good aging factors in the air around these here parts.

Charlie was an engineering educator who held several degrees and, later on in life, an arbitrator. He also drove a Harley. Another badass right there.

I much enjoyed my front porch chats over the years, with Charlie doing most of the talking. We miss him dearly. 

We’re heading into the town of Liberty today. They have a statue of Mark Twain, and I want to have our picture took. Taken? We’re in the Midwest, so I’ll leave it at took.

 Back in the late seventies an old girlfriend of mine, who was into paranormal doings, once told me I was the reincarnation of Mark Twain’s son Langdon, who died of diphtheria near the age of two. I was a Twain freak at the time and figured it was her strange way of telling me she ‘gets me’. How do you process being told you’re the reincarnation of a two-year-old? I’m still somewhat of a a two-year-old; easily distracted and occasionally peeing my pants. I think Twain would be disappointed in his revamped offspring. She should have told me I was the reincarnated son of a pack mule. It would have add more sense and somewhat of an improvement. 

Poppa mule, I hope I’ve made you proud. 

Why is Twain in Liberty? He was born in Hannibal, Missouri, which lays two hundred miles to the east, on the banks of the ol’ Mississippi. I reckon I’ll find out. Until later. 

***

I not only had my picture took/taken with Twain, I also had a park bench sit-down with Ol’ Ben Franklin and then managed to lay some lip on Susan B. Anthony. What all three legends were doing in town is beyond me. There was no one around to answer my questions because it’s Columbus Day; a federal holiday. 

If I was Chris I’d feel slightest; not one Columbus statue in sight. I was not  disappointed, though. It was a good day.