THE USUAL NOTE FROM LB: From the summer of 2002 to the spring of 2010, Gwen the Beautiful and I were the proud and often exhausted owners of a beautiful Ozarks property we called Cloud Creek Ranch.
In many ways, the ranch was paradise. But it was a paradise with a price that started going up before we even knew it existed. Here’s another Monday musing about our adventure and the lessons we learned.
Oh, and if y’all detect any irony, please believe me when I say it comes straight from the universe and not your kindly Uncle Larry B.
by Larry Brody
I could’ve sworn that D.W., owner of Paradise Music, was the most peaceful individual on the planet.
Talk about equanimity! In the time we’d known each other, I’d never heard D.W. utter a cross word or seen him frown.
Nothing seemed to get to him. Not rude customers. Not lawsuit-crazy ex-wives. Not even a world situation that put two of his sons in uniform and propelled them directly into harm’s way.
But yesterday, while I was hanging out at the store, I saw a whole ‘nuther guy.
Donny Zee, the Storyteller, brought out D.W.’s Mr. Hyde when he came in shortly before closing time.
“Hey, D.W.,” Donny called out. “Got any rock guitar strings?”
“I didn’t know you played guitar, Donny,” I said.
“Why, sure I do. Been at it since 6th Grade. Lead guitar with the best hair band in Morning Star.”
“I didn’t know you lived in Morning Star.”
“Sure did. If you consider that unincorporated strip of land just north of Dooley Road to be Morning Star.”
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen a Dooley Road,” I said.
Donny opened his mouth to reply, stopped as D.W. pulled several packages of strings from the main display case.
“Just happen to have these nickel wound pure power groove strings,” D.W. said. “Light, medium, or heavy?”
“Light heavy,” Donny said.
“That’s the one weight I don’t have,” said D.W..
“But it’s the one I need. I’m going up to Branson this weekend. Chuck Berry’s playing and asked me to sit in with the band.”
“Chuck Berry’s playing in Branson?” D.W. said. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”
“It’s a secret. A surprise for the fans,” said Donny.
“There’re Chuck Berry fans in Branson?” I asked. “Thought country music reigned supreme.”
“Chuck’s gonna change that,” Donny said. “That’s why he wants me. Man’s getting old. He’ll be hollering about ‘School Days’ and ‘his ‘ding-a-ling,’ ‘goin’ round and round,’ and while he’s prancing all over the stage pretending to play I’ll be ghosting those great riffs.”
Donny made a run down the neck of an invisible guitar. “The C-Man and I go way back. We met when his car broke down in Big Flat. I was working at the gas station, and he heard me picking at my box and—“
Donny broke off. A look of terror filled his face.
With good reason. D.W. was coming toward him, swinging a metal snare drum stand in each hand.
“Get out of here, you lying faker!” D.W. roared. “Out! Out! Or I’ll make you into a lifetime supply of medium heavy strings!”
The stand in D.W.’s left hand missed Donny’s head by half an inch. The one in D.W.’s right hand started its arc—and Donny bolted for the door. Kept on running, right past his own car.
D.W. stood in the doorway. It looked to me like he was going to give chase, so I reached out to stop him. “D.W.! Calm down!”
D.W. shook himself. Dropped the two drum stands. “Sorry, Larry B,” he said. “I know every word out of Donny’s mouth is as far from true as a compass in a magnetic storm, but I just couldn’t help myself.
“I try real hard to keep cool,” continued D.W. “After my time in the Gulf War I swore nothing would ever get to me unless there were bullets flying. A counselor I had at the V.A. gave me a tip. He said, ‘Your feelings are a guide, but they’re not meant to control you. You’ve got to take charge of them.’
“So I came up with a way to take charge. I’d be in a situation where I felt my chest tightening with anger and I’d talk out loud so God and the universe could hear.
“I’d say, ‘No, this is wrong. I’m not really mad at this insignificant garbage that’s going down. I’m just peeved. A little irked. Irritated is all.
“And for years it’s done the trick. By telling myself what I should really be feeling, I start feeling it. And instead of getting worked up I calm down.
“But when Donny came in and badmouthed the master, the man who created Johnny B. Goode—well, sorry, but I just saw red.”
I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant. Some names are sacred, no matter what.
As a writer, I’d feel the same way about anyone who took the name of Shakespeare or Dante or Stan Lee in vain.
