Every town has one. One old man to fix the broken toys. One old man to tell the stories. One old man to bring us joy.
In Ashley, ND, where I was born, it was Mr. Miller. He made wooden moons with petite shelves for knick-knacks to hang on Mom’s walls. His garage was loaded with them. They were scattered among the sawdust, and each one was unique. He made glorious birdhouses, and I remember erecting his creations in the yards of my youth. A pale green home for sparrows stood proudly in our yard, and a huge red birdhouse survives to this very day. It could house overweight ostriches.
In Frederick, SD, where I grew up, the place I call my hometown, there was another man. Cut from the same cloth. Same Union. God or Fate or Luck deposited my family next door. We rented his house while he lived in the faded green trailer to the west. Somehow it didn’t seem fair that Glenn and Ethel should live in a closet while we lived in a castle. It seemed that way to me then. There were wooden pillars that separated the living and dining rooms, fancy hanging light fixtures and two bathrooms. The house had two porches and the front screens soon became bowed from the force of whiffle balls missed by inept batsmen. This, of course, didn’t please Ethel, but Glenn never said a word and once in awhile he replaced the screens. And then we had a fresh backstop. Glenn would fix our bikes and assemble new toys. His stored paint in our basement became community property, and my two-wheeler soon was a horrid maroon.
He’d drag home wrecked cars to dismantle, though he never found the time. Seems he could never let anything go to waste. That old Ford soon became a permanent third base.
When Glenn was finally retired from his job at the Ford Garage, it hurt us almost as much as it hurt him. He still had a lot of years left to give. We knew that. They got lost in the numbers. But it all turned out for the best. He had more time to fix our dented screens and our wobbly bikes, and he had more time to go fishing. He loved to fish. We ate the extras, and his mangy cats got the rest.
Fishing wasn’t enough to keep him occupied, and soon every odd job that needed doing was being done by Glenn. He could do anything…or at least he thought he could and most everyone believed him.
I remember Glenn and “Shorty” coming over to fix an electrical malady that had plagued the family. In classic Abbott and Costello style, they argued over who would have to torture aged knees to test the socket near the floor. Glenn finally decreed that it should be Shorty since he was built closer to the floor. I don’t remember if they ever solved the problem or what the final charge was, but in entertainment value it was a bargain.
After Ethel had passed on, Mom and Dad would invite Glenn over for supper, and he’d tell the same old stories over again. A wicked mimic, Mom would go, “To make a short story realllly long…” in perfect imitation of Glenn. But it was done in fun, and we loved hearing those old stories as much as he loved telling them.
It was Mom who called to tell me that Glenn had died. She never calls unless it’s really important. I hate it whens she calls.
At the funeral I sat beside little brother, Mike. He cried as we sat in the pew nearest the coffin. I wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t know how, I was crying, too.
Now, at the Community Store, where everyone meets for 8 a.m. for coffee, one chair is still vacant. No one dares sit there. It’s Glenn’s chair.
