My brother Rich and I were on a mission, him behind the wheel of our mom’s old gray Chevy Nova and me riding shotgun. We were heading north on the highway that cuts through the rich farmland of the Sacramento Valley, determined to find our friends Hugh and Jean Quinn, collect the lawnmower, and make it home before dark. It was late morning on a hot August day and the sun beat down on the bone-dry fields that lined the road. Now and then, we’d pass irrigated land where the row crops were nearing end of season. Looking up the highway, we strained our eyes to filter out the false vision of water covering the road, anticipating a grain elevator or a church steeple that would announce the town of Valley Vista. On Main Street, we were to look for a watering hole called Sunny’s, then turn left and head west out of town up into the low foothills. Hugh and Jean had marked the entrance to their property with red and white balloons tied to a fence post. “You can’t miss it,” were their last words.
The town materialized out of the valley heat, we found Sunny’s corner and headed west. We were out into rolling country now, populated by small herds of cattle grazing on the hillsides.
“Hey, Nick …” Rich was smiling, keeping his eyes glued to the road. “Remember when Brent’s old man told you that these cattle were a special breed called Sidehill Gougers? With longer legs on one side so they could graze the hillsides?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. “Yeah, I guess you’ll believe anything when you’re a kid.”
The road began to twist and turn now as we wound through a stand of scrub oak that followed a dry creek bed. Suddenly, there were the promised balloons, bobbing about in the warm breeze. Rich turned right and began to climb a gravel road that curved gently up the hill. We topped a rise onto a flat, graded area and there were the Quinns, standing in front of their doublewide trailer, waving and smiling broadly.
I looked around as we got out of the car and was impressed by the setting. The trailer was situated facing east, looking out across the valley toward the Sierras. The valley itself looked like a brown and green quilt stretching into the distance. To the west, behind the trailer, the knob of the hill and a large valley oak promised afternoon shade, a welcome respite from the brutal August sun. Just outside the door to the trailer, there was a broad concrete patio, covered by a ribbed metal roof on a redwood frame. It was obvious that Hugh had been busy with these improvements to the site, and it was clear that he intended to stay. A little wooden sign that read “Dun Movin’” was nailed to one of the patio posts.
There were hugs and handshakes all around. After a quick tour of the doublewide, we settled into padded chairs on the patio and Jean handed each of us an ice-cold Coors. She made it clear that from that point on, we’d have to help ourselves.
We’d known the Quinns for about a dozen years, dating back to the time when Jean ran the neighborhood hamburger shack in our hometown. Hugh was a long-distance truck driver and was on the road much of the time. The little restaurant—called Alice’s Place, in honor of the former owner—was initially intended to keep Jean busy while Hugh was away. It turned out to be a successful little business. The burgers and sandwiches were first rate, the Cokes, Nehis and Squirts were always ice-cold, and the juke box was loaded with the best music Tin Pan Alley had to offer, from Glen Miller’s “In The Mood” to Frankie Lane’s “The Kid’s Last Fight.”
Rich was the local news carrier in those days, delivering the morning and evening papers to the surrounding neighborhood. He would make Alice’s Place his last stop every morning and every evening, and Jean Quinn came to love him like a son. As the “little brother,” nine years younger than Rich, I would tag along every chance I got. As far as I was concerned, happiness was a pocketful of nickels to feed the jukebox and enjoy a Nehi Orange. As the old marketing pitch proclaimed, “A nickel for Nehi. How much for a dime?”
We relaxed on the patio now, catching up on what was going on in everyone’s life. Hugh had finally retired from the trucking business, at least for the time being. He and Jean both knew that sooner or later, he’d run out of projects around their property. When that happened, she’d have to find something for him to do; either that or let him drive her nuts. Rich filled them in on recent happenings in his career with the State of California. I played the part of the good listener: the Quinns had always been Rich’s “family,” and I was fine with that.
The beer was very cold, coming directly from a large ice chest next to Hugh’s chair, and that was a good thing, because the temperature continued to rise, sure to hit triple digits by early afternoon.
There was one Quinn family member that had been left out of the conversation and I couldn’t help but wonder why. The Quinns’ daughter Roslyn, who must be in her mid-twenties now, was conspicuous by her absence, and I was waiting for the right time to raise the question. Roslyn was, and quite likely always will be, the substance of my fantasies. I would describe her as Elizabeth Taylor with brown eyes, and few people would argue with me. I first became aware of her when I was about 13 and she was 17 and a senior in high school. I was totally smitten, a fact which manifested itself by my inability to speak a coherent sentence whenever she was around. All she had to do was make eye contact and smile and I would be reduced to pile of warm Jell-O. While I carried that heavy torch, it turned out that Roslyn had eyes for Rich, a fact that I couldn’t help but hold against my brother.
Rich, who was 22 at that time and well past his news carrier days, did his best to resist. But in the end, it became obvious to anyone with eyes that there was something going on between them. Jean, being a protective mother, found herself torn. She loved Rich, thought of him as the kind of man she’d want her daughter to bring home, as long as it happened later. Much later.
And then life intervened as it is inclined to do. Rich went off to serve in the Army and Roslyn moved on with her life, never lacking for attention from male suitors. All of this left me with a fantasy woman who crept into my dreams from time to time, with her beautiful brown eyes, her gleaming white smile, and a figure that could keep you awake at night.
Hugh took Rich around to the back of the trailer to a shed where the lawnmower was stored, leaving me to chat with Jean. I filled her in on my attempts to work and go to school, determined to earn my degree. Jean brought me up to date on their most recent move, from a home in Quincy to this notch in the hillside overlooking the valley. The Quincy house had an expansive lawn, hence the lawnmower; it was clear that Hugh had no plans to do any lawn mowing here. It just so happened that we were in the market for a reliable mower to tend the lawns at our mother’s place.
I finally found an opening in the conversation to ask how Roslyn was doing. As Jean was about to answer, we heard the mower start up in back of the trailer, coughing a little at first, then running strong and smooth as advertised.
“Roslyn is doing fine, Nick. She lives near here, so I get to see her a lot. But …” She looked away across the valley and it was several seconds before she continued. “Hugh and Roslyn had a falling out. She hasn’t spoken to him for nearly two years now.” She went on to explain that it was a dispute that centered on Roslyn’s husband, a guy that Hugh could not stand. She started to say more, but then caught herself. Finally she added: “He’s just not a very nice person, Nick. He doesn’t treat her well.”
This caused my imagination to run amok and I felt my cheeks flush with hatred for the rotten bastard of a husband. Who could possibly mistreat Roslyn? Just then Rich called me to help load the mower into the car. We folded the handle in half and lifted the nearly new machine into the trunk. We blocked the wheels with wood scraps and lashed the trunk lid down with some rope that Hugh had handy. This effort out in the mid-day sun renewed our thirst and called for another ice-cold beer.
“Okay guys, finish your beers and then were heading down to Sunny’s. It’s too damn hot to sit up here, even in the shade.” Jean got no argument on this point. A little air conditioning would be much appreciated.
Sunny’s fancied itself to be a cowboy bar. The décor was classic western bunkhouse, with lariats and spurs, horseshoes and branding irons, and even an old saddle hung on the wall; this in addition to two large oil paintings behind the bar that depicted life on the range. Sunny herself dressed the part, looking like a sixty-something Dale Evans after a hard day’s work. The jukebox was loaded with great tunes, as long as you adopted the house view that there are only two kinds of music: Country and Western. There was a nice crowd for a Sunday afternoon and Sunny was busy keeping everyone’s glass full.
Hugh and Jean had donned their cowboy hats and fit right in with rest of the crowd. Rich and me—in our polo shirts, khaki shorts and tennis shoes—were the odd men out. None of that mattered as the Quinns introduced us to friends who stopped by to say hello and buy a round. Before long, I noticed that I had two beers waiting on the bar for my attention, in addition to the one in my hand. Rich, to his credit, had switched to club soda, anticipating the drive home.
The circle around Jean and Hugh expanded and contracted as friends came and went. They sat with their backs resting against the padded rail, as though holding court. Jean gave me a handful of quarters for the jukebox with instructions to play some Patsy Cline, or Tammy Wynette, or Johnny Cash. I selected “I Fall to Pieces,” and “Crazy,” and watched as several couples slow-danced on the small dance floor. I punched the numbers for “A Boy Named Sue” and smiled, wondering what kind of reaction it would bring. When I rejoined the group at the bar, a guy who’d been introduced as Dudley entered the circle behind me.
“Hey, Hugh.” He said it loud enough to cut through the general chatter. “Roslyn is here, down at the end of the bar.” And just like that, all conversation stopped as everyone turned to Hugh.
Hugh was quiet for a moment. “Is he with her?”
“No. She’s here with some friends.”
He took a long pull from his beer, looking very uncomfortable in this sudden spotlight. “Well … tell her we’re right here … if she wants to say hello.”
Dudley blinked a couple of times, then turned and headed back down the bar, honored to play the designated shuttle diplomat. It was quiet for a second and then the suspended conversations resumed and Tammy Wynette sang “Stand By Your Man.” I looked around and tried to spot Roslyn, but the place was too crowed now. Jean got up and walked away, heading toward her daughter’s end of the bar.
Five minutes later, Dudley was back, and again, all conversation halted. “Roslyn says she’s right there if you’d like to say ‘Hi.’” Dudley glanced around the circle, clearly growing less comfortable with his role.
I watched Hugh’s face and saw a range of emotions come and go, probably somewhere between Damn stubborn kid, just like her mother, and Aw shit, life is too short for this! He cleared his throat and said, “Tell her I hope she’s well … and that everything’s okay at home.”
Dudley smiled now and headed quickly away with this message. It wasn’t long before he was back. “She says ‘thanks, same to you.’” He paused a moment and then added, “They’re gettin’ ready to leave.”
Hugh fixed Dudley with a steady gaze. “Tell her to take care. And tell her I said ‘I love you.’”
The background noise continued and Johnny Cash sang “I Walk The Line,” but you could hear a quarter drop in the circle around Hugh Quinn as Dudley hurried away. I shuffled my feet and stared at my sneakers. A few seconds later, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a white streak fly by. It was a girl in a cowboy hat and she ran into Hugh’s arms so hard that her hat was knocked to the floor. I knew it was Roslyn. She wrapped her arms around Hugh’s neck and he held her close for a long, long time. We were all quiet, except for Dudley who kept saying, “Ah, now that’s the ticket …that’s the ticket.”
Roslyn let go of Hugh for a second and turned to me. “Nick! It’s great to see you!” She gave me a quick hug and a peck on the check, and I instantly became Mr. Jell-O. I managed to say, “Hi, Roslyn. Great to see you too.” I had picked up her hat and I handed it to her now. She was wearing a white western-style shirt and jeans, with a wide leather belt and a big silver buckle. If anything, she was prettier than I remembered.
Then she turned to my brother and gave him a full-body hug, one that went on a little too long for my taste. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but my brother was grinning an embarrassed little grin. She turned back to Hugh, grabbed his hand and led him to a booth off across the dance floor for a private conversation. As she walked away in those wonderful fitted jeans, I could see that time had certainly been good to her. Dudley kept saying, “Now that’s the ticket,” and his eyes were shining with pride over his role in all of this.
Merle Haggard sang “Okie from Muskogee” and the whole bar joined in the chorus; that is except for Roslyn and Hugh. And then it was time for us say goodbye to the Quinns and all of our new friends at Sunny’s. We’d stayed longer than planned and the sun was about to duck behind the hills to the west as we headed down the highway, talking and laughing about the events of the day. But I had some questions for my brother, and after a while, I just couldn’t hold back.
“So … Roslyn really looks great, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.”
“Is she still with that guy?”
“As far as I know.”
“Ya know, I had a huge crush on her … when I was a kid.”
“Everybody knows that, Nick.”
I was a little surprised at first, but I knew it made sense. “That was some hug she gave you!”
Rich didn’t reply.
“So … you guys kinda had a thing, you know, way back in the day?”
He was quiet for a few seconds, and then he spoke to me in his best big-brother voice. “Nick, give it up. I’m not gonna talk about it.”
And that was my brother. A gentleman. Never kiss and tell. Not ever. I looked at him with a bag full of mixed feelings—curiosity, admiration, jealousy, love, frustration—but mostly love.
I leaned back in the seat and looked out the window to the west. We were cruising through the hills between Vacaville and Fairfield and I watched a herd of those famous Sidehill Gougers moving along the steep hillside, heading home, wherever home might be. I let my mind wander a little and conjured up a daydream in which Roslyn came over to our mom’s house and mowed the lawns, wearing those painted-on jeans.
My brother looked at me suspiciously. “What the hell are smiling about?”
It was an easy shot, too easy really, but I took it anyway. “Rich, give it up. I’m not gonna talk about it.”
Rich cracked up laughing and I joined him. I could always make him laugh. We must have looked pretty silly, two guys rolling down the road, laughing our asses off, in a little gray Chevy with a lawnmower stuffed in the trunk. Just like those Sidehill Gougers—finding our way home.
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A fine piece, DaddyO! Enjoyed this!
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