By Slim Randles
“Well,” Steve said, polishing off the last of his coffee, “what should we discuss this fine morning?”
“I’m awful glad you asked, ol’ pard,” came the cheerful voice of Windy Wilson, emerging through the swinging doors that came from the kitchen of the Mule Barn truck stop.
“Yessir. Awful glad.” Steve and the other members of the world dilemma think tank looked in amazement as this old camp cook and cowboy came over with the coffee pot and topped off their coffee mugs. Windy had found a dish towel and wrapped it around his waist, too.
“Windy?” Doc. said “Mighty fine-looking dish towel you’re wearing.”
“Thanks, Doc. I cornsider it the aplex of dining room fashion for a volunteer coffee guy. Took me a while to talk Loretta into lettin’ me wear it, howsomever. I guess she ain’t up on dining room fashions.”
“Let me guess,” said Doc. “This must be your helping day, right?”
“Right as grain, Doc,” Windy said, cheerfully. “I thought about it and decisioned I’d devote my helpin’ day to the good ol’ Mule Barn.” We all knew Windy dedicated one day each week to helping others. This sometimes meant helping them when they really didn’t need it, but hey, the older folks in our town get some trash picked up in the yard and some kindling split. You know.
“So fer a conservational subject this sparklin’ a.m.,” Windy said, “I believe I’d meanderate through the mystericals of ancient history, beginnin’ with them Egypt guys. Whadda ya think?”
“Might just do that, Windy,” Steve said, “But if you don’t mind me asking, why are you helping out with the coffee in here rather than cleaning up somebody’s yard.”
Windy looked around to see if the other 43 people in the café could hear, then leaned down toward Steve. “Lot warmer in here than it is in somebody’s yard, and thassa fact.”
Brought to you by Slim’s latest novel “Cock-a-Doodle Death” What happens when a chicken’s ghost haunts Home Country. Not yet available, but start saving up.