 Home, naturally, was the Mule Barn truck stop, home of the world
dilemma think tank, and the folks -- it goes without saying -- are
us.When they came in, Dewey had his hand in the small of
her back to steer her toward us, and we noticed right off that Miz
Emily Stickles, county watchdog of everything that should be
perused, didn't seem to mind a bit.
"Emily," Dewey said, with an arm flourish that knocked Dud's cap
off, "these are the guys."
And she shook hands as he introduced each of us on philosophical
duty that morning: Doc, Steve, Dud, Herb and me. She was gracious,
and I saw right off how Dewey could get fascinated by her
cheekbones. Olympic class. If her face was on Mount Rushmore, you
could rappel off them.
"Dewey's told me so much about each of you," Emily said, smiling.
"It's so comforting to know he has an emotional support group while
he works things out."
Doo slipped us a wink and quick head shake to let us know he
hadn't explained, as yet, that cow manure was his business and not a
neurotic obsession. We smiled back.
"We don't mind a bit," Doc said. "Everyone can use an emotional
support group from time to time. Ol' Doo is here for us, too,
you know."
[to top of second
column] |
They retired to a booth, ordered breakfast, and we stole
occasional glances to see how things were progressing. They got
coffee and Emily whipped out the old tape recorder.
"Now Dewey," she said, pushing the buttons, "I noticed Doc
referred to you as Doo. Would that be in reference to your ...
fascination? I mean ... like dog doo ... you know?"
From small acorns like these do the tall oak trees of doctoral
theses grow.
[Text from file received from Slim Randles]
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