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
What with one thing and another, I hadn’t seen Brannigan the Contractor for several months, so when we met for lunch at KT’s on Saturday I was looking forward to both some leisurely rib-chomping and catching up on what’s been going on in his life.
The conversation started with some bad news, as all too many conversations do in this troubled financial climate.
“Sweet Jane’s closed her shop,” Brannigan said as we carried our meals to the closest unoccupied table. “Hadn’t made a sale in I don’t know how long. Didn’t even have anybody coming in to look around and yak for the last couple of weeks.”
“So now’s not a good time for Gwen the Beautiful and me to try and sell that old cobbler’s bench we don’t have room for anymore?”
“Dude, now’s not a good time to try and sell anything. Nobody’s got a penny to spare. After I finish the ice storm repairs I’m making for the Paradise School District I’ve got nothing to do but watch TV and fret.”
Brannigan slathered some ribs in hot sauce. “I may end up a full-time artsy craftsy candle maker this summer,” he said. “Make the rounds of the craft fairs.”
He picked up a dripping wet rib, examined it like a jeweler looking through a loupe. “If I can afford the gas.” Like a snapping turtle, he bit into the rib, which responded with a solid, “Crunch.”
“You think you’ve got problems? Ha!”
Brannigan and I looked up. Saw Donny Zee, the Storyteller, walking over to us from the cash register where he’d just put in his order.
Brannigan’s sigh was so loud I thought it would shake the room. “He’s gonna top me in misery,” he said in the kind of whisper everyone in the place could hear. “You know, like he always does.”
Donny pulled out a chair and sat down. “This isn’t about my problems. It’s Paradise that’s in trouble. I went to the beauty parlor yesterday to drop off my dry cleaning, and the place was closed. Out of business. Now I’ve got to drive all the way to Mountain Home to get my pants pressed just right.”
Brannigan harrumphed. Donny ignored him. “The new ice cream shop in the square’s gone already too. Didn’t last but five minutes, and Kenny Bardwell’s real estate office is history. Oh, you boys know Mr. And Mrs. Grimbly from Grimbly Heating and Air over on Highway 14?”
“New folks? Came here from Ohio about ten years ago?” Brannigan said.
“Not new anymore. Now they’re ‘ex,'” said Donny. “Moved back to Akron last week. Door to the shop’s hanging open, and a side window’s already broken.”
“They just left and you’ve already gone in there to check everything out?” I said.
“I like to think of myself as a reporter,” Donny said. “I look into what happens all over Paradise County. Never know when the next big story will come up.”
“Next big lie, you mean,” Brannigan said.
“You don’t get it,” Donny said. “I never lie. I just…shape.”
“What’re you going to shape the Grimblys into?” I said.
“A sad, cautionary tale about how they might still be valued members of the community if they’d concentrated on repairing wood-burning stoves.”
I laughed. Brannigan glowered. “Stop encouraging him,” Brannigan said.
A hot chicken sandwich appeared in the serving window. Donny claimed it, returned to us. It was his turn at the hot sauce, and he made Brannigan look like a piker. When he bit into his sandwich his eyes shone.
“What’re you waiting for, Larry B?” Brannigan said. “Eat!”
I looked down at my brisket plate.
Dug into it.
Felt the glory that comes from scarfing down perfectly cooked beef.
Together, Brannigan, Donny, and I gave ourselves over to one of nature’s wonders, concentrating on our food. We ate in a silence punctuated by grunts of slobbering, belly-filling joy, and when we were done we pushed our plates away and regarded each other as brothers.
“So what are we going to do,” I said, “about these hard times?”
Brannigan pushed himself up from the table. “I’m going to have myself a piece of peanut butter pie.”
Donny and I hurried after him. “Peanut butter pie!”
We said it together, but it took me a few seconds to realize why the tone of our words sounded so familiar.
It was the tone most folks in Paradise use when they say, “Amen.”
